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A 

TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES 

AND 

SKETCHES  BY  BOZ! 


BY 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  F.  BARNARD* 


I 


CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK : 
BELFORD,  CLARKE  &  COMPANY, 
Publishers. 


TROW'8 

WHNTmO  AND  BOOKBINDINO  COMPMrg 
NEW  YORK. 


^^3 

77  r.^-,^- 


PREFACE. 


When  I  was  acting,  with  my  children  and  friends,  in  Mr. 
WiLKiE  Collinses  drama  of  The  Frozen  Deep,  I  first  conceived 
the  main  idea  of  this  story.  A  strong  desire  was  upon  me 
then,  to  embody  it  in  my  own  person  ;  and  I  traced  out  in  my 
fancy  the  state  of  mind  of  which  it  would  necessitate  the  pre- 
sentation to  an  observant  spectator,  with  particular  care  and 
interest. 

As  the  idea  became  familiar  to  me,  it  gradually  shaped  it- 
self into  its  present  form.  Throughout  its  execution,  it  has 
had  complete  possession  of  me ;  I  have  so  far  verified  what  is 
done  and  suffered  in  these  pages,  as  that  I  have  certainly  done 
and  suffered  it  all  myself. 

Whenever  any  reference  (however  slight)  is  made  here  to 
the  condition  of  the  French  people  before  or  during  the  Rev- 
olution, it  is  truly  made,  on  the  faith  of  trustworthy  witnesses. 
It  has  been  one  of  my  hopes  to  add  something  to  the  popular 
and  picturesque  means  of  understanding  that  terrible  time, 
though  no  one  can  hope  to  add  anything  to  the  philosophy  of 
Mr.  Carlyle's  wonderful  book. 


CONTENTS. 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

BOOK  THE  FIRST.  RECALLED  TO  LIFE. 

CHAP.  PAGE 

1.  The  period     7 

II.  The  mail   lo 

III.  The  night  shadows   15 

IV.  The  preparation     19 

V.  The  wine-shop   30 

VI.  The  shoemaker  -  .  40 

BOOK  THE  SECOND. — THE  GOLDEN  THREAD. 

I.  Five  years  later   51 

II.  A  sight    57 

III.  A  disappointment   63 

IV.  Congratulatory   76 

V.  The  jackal   82 

VI.  Hundreds  of  people   87 

VII.  Monseigneur  in  town   99 

VIII.  Monseigneur  in  the  country   107 

IX.  The  Gorgon's  head   112 

X.  Two  promises   122 

XI.  A  companion  picture   130 

XII.  The  fellow  of  delicacy                                        ...  134 

XIII.  The  fellow  of  no  delicacy.   140 

XIV.  The  honest  tradesman.   145 

XV.  Knitting   155 

XVI.  Still  knitting   165 

X\T  I.  One  night   175 

XVI  II.  Nine  days   180 

XIX.  An  opinion   i86 

XX.  A  plea   193 

XXL  Echoing  footsteps   197 

XXII.  The  sea  still  rises   207 

XXI II.  Fire  rises   212 

XXIV\  Drawn  to  the  loadstone  rock     219 


V  CONTENTS. 

BOOK  THE  THIRD.  THE  TRACK  OF  A  STORM. 


CHAP-  PAGE 

I.  In  secret. ...    231 

II.  The  grindstone       242 

III.  The  shadow   248 

IV.  Cahn  in  storm  ,   253 

V.  The  wood-sawyer   258 

VI.  Triumph  i   263 

•VII.  A  knock  at  the  door  ,   270 

VIII.  A  hand  at  cards   275 

IX.  The  game  made   287 

X.  The  sub^ance  of  the  shadow   298 

XI.  Dusk    312 

XII.  Darkness   316 

XI II.  Fifty-two    324 

XIV.  The  knitting  done.     335 

XV.  The  footsteps  die  out  for  ever   347 


SKETCHES    BY  BOZ. 

OUR  PARISH. 


I.  The  beadle.    The  parish  engine.    The  schoolmaster  355 
11.  The  curate.    The  old  lady.    The  half-pay  captain.  ..  362 

III.  The  four  sisters    367 

IV.  The  election  for  beadle  ,   372 

V.  T]:ie  broker's  man   379 

VI.  The  ladies'  societies   387 

VII.  Our  next-door  neighbor   393 

SCENES. 

I.  The  streets — morning   399 

II.  The  streets — night   404 

III.  Shops  and  their  tenants  .0   409 

IV.  Scotland-yard   413 

V.  Seven  Dials   417 

VI.  Meditations  in  Monmouth-street   422 

VII.  Hackney-coach  stands   428 

VIII.  Doctors'  Commons   432 

IX.  London  recreations   438 

X.  The  river   442 

XI.  Astley's    449 

XII.  Greenwich  Fair   ....  455 


CONTENTS. 


V 


CHAP.  PAGE 

XIII.  Private  theatres   463 

XIV.  Vauxhall-gardens  by  day   469 

XV.  Early  coaches   474 

XVI.  Omnibuses   479 

XVII.  The  last  cab-driver,  and  the  first  omnibus  cad   483 

XVIII.,  A  Parliamentary  sketch   492 

XIX.  Public  dinners   503 

XX.  The  first  of  May   509 

XXI.  Brokers'  and  marine-store  shops  , .   516 

XXII.  Gin  shops.. .  ,^   520 

XXIII.  The  pawnbroker's  shop   525 

XXIV.  Criminal  courts   532 

XXV,  A  visit  to  Newgate   537 


CHARACTERS. 


I.  Thoughts  about  people.   550 

II.  A  Christmas  dinner   555 

III.  The  New  Year     559 

IV.  Miss  Evans  and  the  eagle   564 

V.  The  parlor  orator   568 

VI.  The  hospital  patient   573 

VII.  The  misplaced  attachment  of  Mr.  John  Bounce.  . . .  577 

VIII.  The  mistaken  milliner.    A  tale  of  ambition   583 

IX.  The  dancing  academy    588 

X.  •  Shab.by-genteel  people   594 

XI.  Making  a  night  of  it   698 

XII.  The  prisoners'  van   603 


TALES. 


I.  The  boarding  house   607 

II.  Mr.  Minns  and  his  cousin   642 

III.  Sentiment   653 

IV.  The  Tuggs's  at  Ramsgatc   664 

V.  Horatio  Sparkins   683 

VI.  The  black  veil   698 

VII.  The  steam  excursion   709 

V'lII.  The  Great  Winglebury  duel   730 

IX.  Mrs.  Joseph  Porter   747 

X.  A  passage  in  the  life  of  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle   756 

XI.  The  Bloomsbury  christjening  ,  791 

XII.  The  drunkard's  death   807 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

Sn  QLl\xcc  Books. 


BOOK  THE  FIRST.    RECALLED  TO  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  1. 

THE  PERIOD. 

It  was  the  best  of  times,  it  was  the  worst  of  times,  it  was  the 
age  of  wisdom,  it  was  the  age  of  foolishness,  it  was  the  epoch 
of  belief,  it  was  the  epoch  of  incredulity,  it  was  the  season  of 
Light,  it  was  the  season  of  Darkness,  it  was  the  spring  of 
hope,  it  was  the  winter  of  despair,  we  had  everything  before 
us,  we  had  nothing  before  us,  we  were  all  going  direct  to 
Heaven,  we  were  all  going  direct  the  other  way — in  short,  the 
period  was  so  far  like  the  present  period,  that  some  of  its 
noisiest  authorities  insisted  on  its  being  received,  for  good 
or  for  evil,  in  the  superlative  degree  of  comparison  only. 

There  were  a  king  with  a  large  jaw  and  a  queen  with  a  plain 
face,  on  the  throne  of  England  ;  there  were  a  king  with  a  large 
jaw  and  a  queen  with  a  fair  face,  on  the  throne  of  France.  In 
both  countries  it  was  clearer  than  crystal  to  the  lords  of  the 
State  preserves  of  loaves  and  fishes,  that  things  in  general 
were  settled  for  ever. 

It  was  the  year  of  Our  Lord  one  thousand  seven  hundred 
and  seventy-five.  Spiritual  revelations  were  conceded  to  Eng- 
land at  that  favored  period,  as  at  this.  Mrs.  Southcott  had 
recently  attained  her  five-and-twentieth  blessed  birthday,  of 


8 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CTTFES. 


whom  a  prophetic  private  in  the  Life  Guards  had  heralded  the 
sublime  appearance  by  announcing  that  arrangements  were 
made  for  the  swallowing  up  of  London  and  Westminster. 
Even  the  Cock-lane  ghost  had  been  laid  only  a  round  dozen 
of  years  after  rapping  out  its  messages,  as  the  spirits  of  this 
very  year  las*  past  (supernaturally  deficient  in  originality) 
rapped  out  thtiirs.  Mere  messages  in  the  earthly  order  of 
events  had  lately  come  to  the  English  Crown  and  people,  from 
a  congress  of  British  subjects  in  America  :  which,  strange  to  ^ 
relate,  have  proved  more  important  to  the  human  race  than 
any  communications  yet  received  through  any  of  the  chickens 
of  the  Cock-lane  brood. 

France,  less  favored  on  the  whole  as  to  matters  spiritual 
than  her  sister  of  the  shield  and  trident,  rolled  with  exceeding 
smoothness  down  hill,  making  paper  money  and  spending  it. 
Under  the  guidance  of  her  Christian  pastors,  she  entertained 
herself,  besides,  with  such  human  achievements  as  sentencing 
a  youth  to  have  his  hands  cut  off,  his  tongue  torn  out  with 
pincers,  and  his  body  burned  alive,  because  he  had  not 
kneeled  down  in  the  rain  to  do  honor  to  a  dirty  procession 
of  monks  which  passed  within  his  view,  at  a  distance  of  some 
fifty  or  sixty  yards.  It  is  likely  enough  that,  rooted  in  the 
woods  of  France  and  Norway,  there  were  growing  trees,  when 
that  sufferer  wag"  put  to  death,  already  marked  by  the  Wood- 
man, Fate,  to  come  l3own  and  be  sawn  into  boards,  to  make  a 
certain  movable  framework  with  a  sack  and  a  knife  in  it, 
terrible  in  history.  It  is  likely  enough  that  in  the  rough  out- 
houses of  some  tillers  of  the  heavy  lands  adjacent  to  Paris, 
there  were  sheltered  from  the  weather  that  very  day,  rude 
carts,  bespattered  with  rustic  mire,  snuffed  about  by  pigs,  and 
roosted  in  by  poultry,  which  the  Farmer,  Death,  had  already 
set  apart  to  be  his  tumbrils  of  the  Revolution.  But  that 
Woodman  and  that  Farmer,  though  they  work  unceasingly, 
work  silently,  and  no  one  heard  them  as  they  went  about  with 
muffled  tread :  the  rather,  forasmuch  as  to  entertain  any  sus- 
picion that  they  were  awake,  was  to  be  atheistical  and  trai- 
torous. 

In  England,  there  was  scarcely  an  amount  of  order  and 
protection  to  justify  much  national  boasting.  Daring  burglaries 
by  armed  men,  and  highway  robberies,  took  place  in  the  capi- 
tal itself  every  night ;  families  were  publicly  cautioned  not  to 
go  out  of  town  without  removing  their  furniture  to  upholsterers' 
warehouses  for  security ;  the  highwayman  in  the  dark  was  a 


THE  PERIOD. 


9 


City  tradesman  in  the  light,  and,  being  recognized  and 
challenged  by  his  fellow-tradesman  whom  he  stopped  in  his 
character  of  "the  Captain,"  gallantly  shot  him  through  the 
head  and  rode  away  ;  the  mail  was  waylaid  by  seven  robbers, 
and  the  guard  shot  three  dead,  and  then  got  shot  dead  himself 
by  the  other  four,  "  in  consequence  of  the  failure  of  his  am- 
munition :  "  after  which  the  mail  was  robbed  in  peace  ;  that 
magnificent  potentate,  the  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  was  made 
to  stand  and  deliver  on  Turnham  Green,  by  one  highwayman, 
who  despoiled  the  illustrious  creature  in  sight  of  all  his  retinue  \ 
prisoners  in  London  gaols  fought  battles  with  their  turnkeys, 
and  the  majesty  of  the  law  fired  blunderbusses  in  among  them, 
loaded  with  rounds  of  shot  and  ball ;  thieves  snipped  off 
diamond  crosses  from  the  necks  of  noble  lords  at  Court  draw- 
ing-rooms ;  musketeers  went  into  St.  Giles's,  to  search  for  con- 
traband goods,  and  the  mob  fired  on  the  musketeers,  and  the 
musketeers  fired  on  the  mob,  and  nobody  thought  any  of  these 
occurrences  much  out  of  the  common  way.  In  the  midst  of 
$hem,  the  hangman,  ever  busy  and  ever  worse  than  useless, 
was  in  constant  requisition  ;  now,  stringing  up  long  rows  of 
miscellaneous  criminals  ;  now,  hanging  a  housebreaker  on 
Saturday  who  had  been  taken  on  Tuesday  \  now,  burning 
people  in  the  hand  at  Newgate  by  the  dozen,  and  now  burn- 
ing pamphlets  at  the  door  of  Westminster  Hall  ;  to-day  taking 
the  life  of  an  atrocious  murderer,  and  to-morrow  of  a  wretched 
pilferer  who  had  robbed  a  farmer's  boy  of  sixpence. 

All  these  things,  and  a  thousand  like  them,  came  to  pass 
in  and  close  upon  the  dear  old  year  one  thousand  seven  hun- 
dred and  seventy-five.  Environed  by  them,  while  the  Wood- 
man and  the  Farmer  worked  unheeded,  those  two  of  the  large 
jaws,  and  those  other  two  of  the  plain  and  the  fair  faces,  trod 
with  stir  enough,  and  carried  their  divine  rights  with  a  high 
hand.  Thus  did  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
seventy-five  conduct  their  Greatnesses,  and  myriads  of  small 
creatures — the  creatures  of  this  chronicle  among  the  rest- 
along  the  roads  that  lay  before  them. 


to 


A  TALE  OF  7^ WO  CITIES. 


CHAPTER  11. 

THE  MAIL. 

]t  was  the  Dover  road  that  lay,  on  a  Friday  night  late  in 
November,  before  the  first  of  the  persons  with  whom  this  his- 
tory has  business.  The  Dover  road  lay,  as  to  him,  beyond 
the  Dover  mail,  as  it  lumbered  up  Shooter's  Hill.  He  walked 
uphill  in  the  mire  by  the  side  of  the  mail,  as  the  rest  of  the 
passengers  did;  not  because  they  had  the  least  relish  for  walk- 
ing exercise,  under  the  circumstances,  but  because  the  hill, 
and  the  harness,  and  the  mud,  and  the  mail,  were  all  so 
heavy,  that  the  horses  had  three  times  already  come  to  a 
stop,  besides  once  drawing  the  coach  across  the  road,  with 
the  mutinous  intent  of  taking  it  back  to  Blackheath.  Reins 
and  whip  and  coachman  and  gu'ard,  however,  in  combination, 
had  read  that  article  of  war  which  forbade  a  purpose  other- 
wise strongly  in  favor  of  the  argument,  that  some  brute 
animals  are  endued  with  Reason ;  and  the  team  had  capitu- 
lated and  returned  to  their  duty. 

With  drooping  heads  and  tremulous  tails,  they  mashed 
their  way  through  the  thick  mud,  floundering  and  stumbling 
between  whiles,  as  if  they  were  falling  to  pieces  at  the  larger 
joints.  As  often  as  the  driver  rested  them  and  brought  them 
to  a  stand,  with  a  wary  "  Wo-ho  !  so-ho  then  ! "  the  near 
leader  violently  shook  his  head  and  everything  upon  it — like 
an  unusually  emphatic  horse,  denying  that  the  coach  could  be 
got  up  the  hill.  Whenever  the  leader  made  this  rattle,  the 
passenger  started,  as  a  nervous  passenger  might,  and  was  dis- 
•    turbed  in  mind. 

There  was  a  steaming  mist  in  all  the  hollows,  and  it  had 
roamed  in  its  forlornness  up  the  hill,  like  an  evil  spirit,  seek- 
ing rest  and  finding  none.  A  clammy  and  intensely  cold  mist, 
it  made  its  slow  way  through  the  air  in  ripples  that  visibly  fol- 
lowed and  overspread  one  another,  as  the  waves  of  an  un- 
wholesome sea  might  do.  It  was  dense  enough  to  shut  out 
everything  from  the  light  of  the  coach-lamps  but  these  its  own 
workings,  and  a  few  yards  of  road ;  and  the  reek  of  the  labor- 
ing horses  steamed  into  it,  as  if  they  had  made  it  all. 

Two  other  passengers,  besides  the  one,  were  plodding  up 


THE  MAIL. 


II 


the  hill  by  the  side  of  the  mail.  All  three  were  wrapped  to 
the  cheek-bones  and  over  the  ears,  and  wore  jack-boots.  Not 
one  of  the  three  could  have  said,  from  anything  he  saw,  what 
either  of  the  other  two  was  like ;  and  each  was  hidden  under 
almost  as  many  wrappers  from  the  eyes  of  the  mind,  as  from 
the  eyes  of  the  body,  of  his  two  companions.  In  those  daySj 
travellers  were  very  shy  of  being  confidential  on  a  short  notice,, 
for  anybody  on  the  road  might  be  a  robber  or  in  league  with 
robbers.  As  to  the  latter,  when  every  posting-house  and  ale- 
house could  produce  somebody  in  the  Captain's  "  pay,  rang- 
'  ing  from  the  landlord  to  the  lowest  stable  nondescript,  it  was 
the  likeliest  thing  upon  the  cards.  So  the  guard  of  the  Dover 
mail  thought  to  himself,  that  Friday  night  in  November,  one 
thousand  seven  hundred  and  seventy-five,  lumbering  up 
Shooter's  Hill,  as  he  stood  on  his  own  particular  perch  behind 
the  mail,  beating  his  feet,  and  keeping  an  eye  and  a  hand  on 
the  arm-chest  before  him,  where  a  loaded  blunderbuss  lay  at 
the  top  of  six  or  eight  loaded  horse-pistols,  deposited  on  a 
substratum  of  cutlass. 

The  Dover  mail  was  in  its  usual  genial  position  that  the 
guard  suspected  the  passengers,  the  passengers  suspected  one 
another  and  the  guard,  they  all  suspected  everybody  else,  and 
the  coachman  w^as  sure  of  nothing  but  the  horses  ;  as  to  which 
cattle  he  could  with  a  clear  conscience  have  taken  his  oath  on 
the  two  Testaments  that  they  were  not  fit  for  the  journey. 

"  Wo-ho  ! ''  said  the  coachman.  ^'  So,  then  !  One  mo^ 
pull  and  you're  at  the  top  and  be  damned  to  you,  for  I  havr^ 
had  trouble  enough  to  get  you  to  it ! — Joe  ! 

"  Halloa  !  "  the  guard  replied. 

"  What  o'clock  do  you  make  it,  Joe  ?  '^ 

"  Ten  minutes,  good,  past  eleven." 
My  blood  !  "  ejaculated  the  vexed  coachman,  "  and  noJ 
atop  of  Shooter's  yet !    Tst !    Yah  !    Get  on  with  3'ou  !  " 

The  emphatic  horse,  cut  short  by  the  whip  in  a  most  de- 
cided negative,  made  a  decided  scramble  for  it,  and  the  three 
other  horses  followed  suit.  Once  more,  the  Dover  mail  strug- 
gled on,  with  the  jack-boots  of  its  passengers  squashing  along 
By  its  side.  They  had  stopped  when  the  coach  stopped,  and 
they  kept  close  company  with  it.  If  any  one  of  the  three  had 
had  the  hardihood  to  propose  to  another  to  walk  on  a  little 
ahead  into  the  mist  and  dai^ness,  he  would  have  put  himself 
in  a  fair  way  of  getting  shot  instantly  as  a  highwayman. 

The  last  burst  carried  the  mail  to  the  summit  of  the  hill 


S2 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


The  horses  stopped  to  breathe  again,  and  the  guard  got  down 
to  skid  the  wheel  for  the  descent,  and  open  the  coach-door  to 
let  the  passengers  in. 

"  Tst !  Joe!"  cried  the  coachman  in  a  warning  voices 
looking  down  from  his  box. 

What  do  you  say,  Tom  1  " 

They  both  listened. 

"  I  say  a  horse  at  a  canter  coming  up,  Joe.*' 
/  say  a  horse  at  a  gallop,  Tom,"  returned  the  guard, 
leaving  his  hold  of  the  door,  and  mounting  nimbly  to  his  place. 
"  Gentlemen  !  In  the  king's  name,  all  of  you  !  " 

With  this  hurried  adjuration,  he  cocked  his  blunderbuss, 
and  stood  on  the  offensive. 

The  passenger  booked  by  this  history,  was  on  the  coacti* 
step,  getting  in  ;  the  two  other  passengers  were  close  behind 
him,  and  about  to  follow.  He  remained  on  the  step,  half  in 
the  coach  and  half  out  of  ;  they  remained  in  the  road  below 
him.  They  all  looked  from  the  coachman  to  the  guard,  and 
from  the  guard  to  the  coachman  and  listened.  The  coachman 
looked  back  and  the  guard  looked  back,  and  even  the 
emphatic  leader  pricked  up  his  ears  and  looked  back,  without 
contradicting. 

The  stillness  consequent  on  the  cessation  of  the  rumbling 
and  laboring  of  the  coach,  added  to  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
made  it  very  quiet  indeed.  The  panting  of  the  horses  com- 
municated a  tremulous  motion  to  the  coach,  as  if  it  were  in  a 
state  of  agitation.  The  hearts  of  the  passengers  beat  loud 
enough  perhaps  to  be  heard :  but  at  any  rate,  the  quiet  pause 
was  audibly  expressive  of  people  out  of  breath,  and  holding 
the  breath,  and  having  the  pulses  quickened  by  expectation. 

The  sound  of  a  horse  at  a  gallop  came  fast  and  furiously 
up  the  hill. 

"  So-ho  !  "  the  guard  sang  out,  as  loud  as  he  could  roar, 
"  Yo  there  !    Stand  !    I  shall  fire  !  " 

The  pace  was  suddenly  checked,  and,  with  much  splashing 
and  floundering,  a  man's  voice  called  from  the  mist,  Is  that 
the  Dover  mail  ?  " 

"  Never  you  mind  what  it  is  ?  "  the  guard  retorted.  "  What 
are  you  ? " 

"  Is  that  the  Dover  mail  1 " 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  know 

"  I  want  a  passenger,  if  it  is, 

"  What  passenger  ?  " 


THE  MAIL* 


13 


"Mr  Jarvis  Lorry/' 

Our  booked  passenger  showed  in  a  moment  that  it  was  his 
nam'2.  The  guard,  the  coachman,  and  the  two  other  passen- 
ger':? eyed  him  distrustfully. 

"  Keep  where  you  are,''  the  guard  called  to  the  voice  in 
the  mist,  "  because,  if  I  should  make  a  mistake,  it  could  never 
be  set  right  in  your  lifetime.  Gentleman  of  the  name  of  Lorry 
answer  stiaight.'' 

What  is  the  matter  1  "  asked  the  passenger,  then,  with 
mildly  quavering  speech.     "  Who  wants  me  }     Is  it  Jerry  ?  " 

("  I  don't  like  Jerry's  voice,  if  it  is  Jerry,"  growled  the 
guard  to  himself.    ^'  He's  hoarser  than  suits  me,  is  Jerry.") 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Lorry." 

"  What  is  the  matter  " 

"  A  despatch  sent  after  you  from  over  yonder.  T.  and 
Co," 

"  I  know  this  messenger,  guard,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  getting 
down  into  the  road — assisted  from  behind  more  swiftly  than 
politely  by  the  other  two  passengers,  who  immediately  scram- 
bled into  the  coach,  shut  the  door,  and  pulled  up  the  window. 
"  He  may  come  close  ;  there's  nothing  wrong." 

"  I  hope  there  ain't,  but  I  can't  make  so  'Nation  sure  of 
that,"  said  the  guard,  in  gruff  soliloquy.    "  Hallo  you  !  " 

"  Well !  And  hallo  you  !  "  said  Jerry,  more  hoarsely  than 
before. 

"  Come  on  at  a  footpace  !  d'ye  mind  me  ?  And  if  youVe 
got  holsters  to  that  saddle  o'  yourn,  don't  let  me  see  your 
hand  go  nigh  'em.  For  I'm  a  devil  at  a  quick  mistake,  and 
when  I  make  one  it  takes  the  form  of  Lead.  So  now  let's 
look  at  you." 

The  figures  of  a  horse  and  rider  came  slowly  through  the 
eddying  mist,  and  came  to  the  side  of  the  mail,  where  the 
passenger  stood.  The  rider  stooped,  and,  casting  up  his  eyes 
at  the  guard,  handed  the  passenger  a  small  folded  paper. 
The  rider's  horse  was  blown,  and  both  horse  and  rider  were 
covered  with  mud,  from  the  hoofs  of  the  horse  to  the  hat  of 
the  man. 

"  Guard !  "  said  the  passenger,  in  a  tone  of  quiet  business 
confidence. 

The  watchful  guard,  with  his  right  hand  at  the  stock  of  his 
raised  blunderbuss,  his  left  at  the  barrel,  and  his  eye  on  the 
horseman,  answered  curtly,  "Sir." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  apprehend.    I  belong  to  Tellson's 


14 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Bank.  You  must  know  Tellson's  Bank  in  London.  I  am 
going  to  Paris  on  business.  A  crown  to  drink.  I  may  read 
this  t  " 

If  so  be  as  you're  quick,  sir." 
He  opened  it  in  the  Hght  of  the  coach-lamp  on  that  side, 
and  read — first  to  himself  and  then  aloud  :  ^'  ^  Wait  at  Dover 
for  Mam'selle.'    It's  not  long,  you  see,  guard.    Jerry,  say  that 
my  answer  was,  recalled  to  life." 

Jerry  started  in  his  saddle.  "  That's  a  Blazing  strange 
answer,  too,"  said  he,  at  his  hoarsest. 

Take  that  message  back,  and  they  will  know  that  I  re- 
ceived this,  as  well  as  if  I  wrote.  Make  the  best  of  your  way. 
Good-night." 

With  those  words  the  passenger  opened  the  coach-door 
and  got  in  ;  not  at  all  assisted  by  his  fellow-passengers,  who 
had  expeditiously  secreted  their  watches  and  purses  in  their 
boots,  and  were  now  making  a  general  pretence  of  being 
asleep.  With  no  more  definite  purpose  than  to  escape  the 
hazard  of  originating  any  other  kind  of  action. 

The  coach  lumbered  on  again,  with  heavier  wreaths  of 
mist  closing  round  it  as  it  began  the  descent.  The  guard  soon 
replaced  his  blunderbuss  in  his  arm  chest,  and,  having  looked 
to  the  rest  of  its  contents,  and  having  looked  to  the  supple- 
mentary pistols  that  he  wore  in  his  belt,  looked  to  a  smaller 
chest  beneath  his  seat,  in  which  there  were  a  few  smith's  tools, 
a  couple  of  torches,  and  a  tinder-box.  For  he  was  furnished 
with  that  completeness  that  if  the  coach-lamps  had  been  blown 
and  stormed  out,  which  did  occasionally  happen,  he  had  only 
to  shut  himself  up  inside,  keep  the  flint  and  steel  sparks  well 
off  the  straw,  and  get  a  light  with  tolerably  safety  and  ease 
(if  he  were  lucky)  in  five  minutes. 

"  Tom  !  "  softly  over  the  coach-roof. 
Hallo,  Joe." 

"  Did  you  hear  the  message  ?  " 
I  did,  Joe." 

"  What  did  you  make  of  it,  Tom  ? " 

"  Nothing  at  ail,  Joe." 
That's  a  coincidence,  too,"  the  guard  mused^  "for  I  made 
the  same  of  it  myself." 

Jerry,  left  alone  in  the  mist  and  darkness,  dismounted 
meanwhile,  not  only  to  ease  his  spent  horse,  but  to  wipe  the  mud 
from  his  face,  and  shake  the  wet  out  of  his  hat-brim,  which 
might  be  capable  of  holding  about  half  a  gallon.    After  stand* 


THE  NIGHT  SHADOWS. 


iiig  with  the  bridle  over  his  heavily-splashed  arm,  until  the 
wheels  of  the  mail  were  no  longer  within  hearing  and  the 
night  was  quite  still  again,  he  turned  to  walk  down  the  hill. 

"AftA-  that  there  gallop  from  Temple  Bar,  old  lady,  I 
won't  trust  your  fore-legs  till  I  get  you  on  the  level,"  said  this 
hoarse  messenger,  glancing  at  his  mare.  "  '  Recalled  to  life ! ' 
That's  a  Blazing  strange  message.  Much  of  that  wouldn't  do 
for  you,  Jerry  !  I  say,  Jerry  !  You'd  be  in  a  Blazing  bad 
way,  if  recalling  to  life  was  to  come  into  fashion,  Jerry  1 " 


CHAPTER  IIL 

THE   NIGHT  SHADOWS. 

A  WONDERFUL  fact  to  reflect  upon,  that  every  human  crea- 
ture is  constituted  to  be  that  profound  secret  and  mystery  to 
every  other.  A  solemn  consideration,  when  I  enter  a  great 
city  by  night,  that  every  one  of  those  darkly  clustered  houses 
encloses  its  own  secret ;  that  every  room  in  every  one  of  them 
encloses  its  own  secret ;  that  every  beating  heart  in  the  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  breasts  there,  is,  in  ^ome  of  its  imagin- 
ings, a  secret  to  the  heart  nearest  it !  Something  of  the  aw- 
fulness,  even  of  Death  itself,  is  referable  to  this.  No  more 
can  I  turn  the  leaves  of  this  dear  book  that  I  loved,  and 
vainly  hope  in  time  to  read  it  all.  No  more  can  I  look  into 
the  depths  of  this  unfathomable  water,  wherein,  as  momentary 
lights  glanced  into  it,  I  have  had  glimpses  of  buried  treasure 
and  other  things  submerged.  It  was  appointed  that  the  book 
should  shut  with  a  spring,  for  ever  and  for  ever,  when  I  had 
read  but  a  page.  It  was  appointed  that  the  water  should  be 
locked  in  an  eternal  frost,  when  the  light  was  playing  on  its 
surface,  and  I  stood  in  ignorance  on  the  shore.  My  friend  is 
dead,  my  neighbor  is  dead,  my  love,  the  darling  of  my  soul,  is 
dead  ;  it  is  the  inexorable  consolidation  and  perpetuation  of 
the  secret  that  was  always  in  that  individuality,  and  which  I 
shall  carry  in  mine  to  my  life's  end.  In  any  of  the  burial 
places  of  this  city  through  which  I  pass,  is  there  a  sleeper 
more  inscrutable  than  its  busy  inhabitants  are,  in  their  inner* 
most  personality,  to  me,  or  than  I  am  to  them  ? 


i6 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


As  to  this,  his  natural  and  not  to  be  alienated  inheritance, 

the  messenger  on  horseback  had  exactly  the  same  possessions 
as  the  King,  the  first  Minister  of  State,  or  the  richest  merchant 
in  London.  So  with  the  three  passengers  shut  up  m  the  nar- 
row compass  of  one  lumbering  old  mail  coach  ;  they  were  mys- 
teries  to  one  another,  as  complete  as  if  each  had  been  in  his 
own  coach  and  six,  or  his  own  coach  and  sixty,  with  the 
breadth  of  a  county  between  him  and  the  next. 

The  messenger  rode  back  at  an  easy  trot,  stopping  pretty 
often  at  ale-houses  by  the  way  to  drink,  but  evincing  a  ten- 
dency to  keep  his  own  counsel  and  to  keep  his  hat  cocked 
over  his  eyes.  He  had  eyes  that  assorted  very  well  with  that 
decoration,  being  of  a  surface  black,  with  no  depth  in  the 
color  or  form,  and  much  too  near  together — as  if  they  were 
afraid  of  being  found  out  in  something,  singly,  if  they  kept  too 
far  apart.  They  had  a  sinister  expression,  under  an  old 
cocked-hat  like  a  three-cornered  spittoon,  and  over  a  great 
muffler  for  the  chin  and  throat,  which  descended  nearly  to  the 
wearer's  knees.  When  he  stopped  for  drink,  he  moved  this 
muffler  with  his  left  hand,  only  while  he  poured  his  liquor  in 
with  his  right ;  as  soon  as  that  was  done,  he  muffled  again. 

No,  Jerry ,  no  !  "  said  the  messenger,  harping  on  one 
theme  as  he  rode.  "  It  wouldn't  do  for  you,  Jerry.  Jerry, 
you  honest  tradesman,  it  wouldn't  suit  your  line  of  business ! 
Recalled — !    Buat  me  if  I  don't  think  he'd  been  a  drinking  ! " 

His  message  perplexed  his  mind  to  that  degree  that  he 
was  fain,  several  times,  to  take  off  his  hat  to  scratch  his 
head.  Except  on  the  crovv^n,  which  was  raggedly  bald,  he 
had  stiff,  black  hair,  standing  jaggedly  all  over  it,  and  growing 
down  hill  almost  to  his  broad,  blunt  nose.  It  w-as  so  like 
smith's  work,  so  much  more  like  the  top  of  a  strongly  spiked 
wall  than  a  head  of  hair,  that  the  best  of  players  at  leap-frog 
might  have  declined  him,  as  the  most  dangerous  man  in  the 
world  to  go  over. 

While  he  trotted  back  with  the  message  he  was  to  deliver 
to  the  night  watchman  in  his  box  at  the  door  of  Tellson's 
Bank,  by  Temple  Bar,  who  was  to  deliver  it  to  greater  au- 
thorities within,  the  shadows  of  the  night  took  such  shapes 
to  him  as  arose  out  of  the  message,  and  took  such  shapes  to 
the  mare  as  arose  out  of  her  private  topics  of  uneasiness. 
They  seemed  to  be  numerous,  for  she  shied  at  every  shadow 
on  the  road. 

What  time,  the  mail-coach  lumbered,  jolted,  rattled,  and 


THE  NIGirr  SHADOWS. 


Dumped  upon  its  tedious  way,  with  its  three  fellow-inscruta 
bles  inside.  To  whom,  likewise,  the  shadows  of  the  night 
revealed  themselves,  in  the  forms  their  dozing  eyes  and  wan- 
dering thoughts  suggested. 

Tellson's  bank  had  a  run  upon  it  in  the  mail.  As  the 
bank  passenger — with  an  arm  drawn  through  the  leathern 
strap,  which  did  what  lay  in  it  to  keep  him  from  pounding 
against  the  next  passenger,  and  driving  him  into  his  corner^ 
whenever  the  coach  got  a  special  jolt — nodded  in  his  place, 
with  half-shut  eyes,  the  little  coach-windows,  and  the  coach- 
lamp  dimly  gleaming  through  them,  and  the  bulky  bundle  of 
opposite  passenger,  became  the  bank,  and  did  a  great  stroke 
of  business.  The  rattle  of  the  harness  was  the  chink  of 
money,  and  more  drafts  w^e re  honored  in  five  minutes  than 
even  Tellson's  with  all  its  foreign  and  home  connection,  ever 
paid  in  thrice  the  time.  Then  the  strong-rooms  underground, 
at  Tellson's,  with  such  of  their  valuable  stores  and  secrets  as 
were  known  to  the  passenger  (and  it  was  not  a  little  that  he 
knew  about  them),  opened  before  him,  and  he  went  in  among 
them  with  the  great  keys  and  the  feebly-burning  candle,  and 
found  them  safe,  and  strong,  and  sound,  and  still  just  as  he 
had  last  seen  them. 

But  though  the  bank  was  almost  always  with  him,  and 
though  the  coach  (in  a  confused  way,  like  the  presence  of  pain 
under  an  opiate)  was  always  with  him,  there  was  another  cur- 
rent of  impression  that  never  ceased  to  run,  all  through  the 
night.    He  was  on  his  way  to  dig  some  one  out  of  a  grave. 

Now,  which  of  the  multitude  of  faces  that  showed  them- 
selves before  him  was  the  true  face  of  die  buried  person,  the 
shadows  of  the  night  did  not  indicate-;  but  they  were  all  the 
faces  of  a  man  of  five-and-forty  by  years,  and  they  differed 
principally  in  the  passions  they  expressed,  and  in  the  ghast- 
liness  of  their  worn  and  wasted  state.  Pride,  contempt,  defi- 
ance, stubbornness,  submission,  lamentation,  succeeded  one 
another  :  so  did  varieties  of  sunken  cheek,  cadaverous  color, 
^emaciated  hands  and  figures.  But  the  face  was  in  the  main 
one  face,  and  every  head  was  prematurely  white.  A  hundred 
times  the  dozing  passenger  inquired  of  this  spectre  : 

"  Buried  how  long  ?  " 

The  answer  was  always  the  same :  "  Almost  eighteen 
years." 

"  You  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  being  dug  out  ?  " 
"  Long  ago." 


iS 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


You  know  that  you  are  recalled  to  life  ? 
They  tell  me  so." 
"  I  hope  you  care  to  live  ?  " 
I  can't  say." 

"  Shall  I  show  her  to  you  ?    Will  you  come  and  see  her  ?  *' 

The  answers  to  this  question  were  various  and  contradic- 
tory. Sometimes  the  broken  reply  was,  "  Wait !  It  would 
kill  me  if  I  saw  her  too  soon."  Sometimes,  it  was  given  in 
a  tender  rain  of  tears,  and  then  it  was  ^'Take  me  to  her." 
Sometimes  it  was  startling  and  bewildered,  and  then  it  was, 
"I  don't  know  her.    I  don't  understand." 

After  such  imaginary  discourse,  the  passenger  in  his  fancy 
would  dig,  and  dig,  dig — now  with  a  spade,  now  with  a  great 
key,  now  with  his  hands — to  dig  this  wretched  creature  out. 
Got  out  at  last,  with  earth  hanging  about  his  face  and  hair, 
he  would  suddenly  fall  away  to  dust.  The  passenger  would 
then  start  to  himself,  and  lower  the  window,  to  get  the  reality 
of  mist  and  rain  on  his  cheek. 

Yet  even  when  his  eyes  were  opened  on  the  mist  and  rain, 
on  the  moving  patch  of  light  from  the  lamps,  and  the  hedge 
at  the  roadside  retreating  by  jerks,  the  night  shadows  outside 
the  coach  would  fall  into  the  train  of  the  night  shadows  with- 
in. The  real  Banking-house  by  Temple  Bar,  the  real  busi- 
ness of  the  past  day,  the  real  strong  rooms,  the  real  express 
sent  after  him,  and  the  real  message  returned,  would  all  be 
there.  Out  of  the  midst  of  them,  the  ghostly  face  would  rise, 
and  he  would  accost  it  again. 

"  Buried  how  long  ?  " 
Almost  eighteen  years.  " 

"  I  hope  you  care  to  live  ? " 

"  I  can't  say." 

Dig — dig — dig — until  an  impatient  movement  from  one  of 
the  two  passengers  would  admonish  him  to  pull  up  the  win- 
dow, draw  his  arm  securely  through  the  leathern  strap,  and 
speculate  upon  the  two  slumbering  forms,  until  his  mind  lost 
its  hold  of  them,  and  they  again  slid  away  into  the  bank  and 
the  grave. 

"  Buried  how  long  ?  " 

"  Almost  eighteen  years." 

"  You  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  being  dug  out } " 
"  Long  ago." 

The  words  were  still  in  his  hearing  as  just  spoken — dis- 
tinctly in  his  hearing  as  ever  spoken  words  had  been  in  his  life 


THE  FkEPARA  riON. 


19 


a— when  the  weary  passenger  started  to  the  consciousness  of 
daylight,  and  found  that  the  shadows  of  the  night  were  gone. 

He  lowered  the  window,  and  looked  out  at  the  rising  sua 
There  was  a  ridge  of  ploughed  land,  with  a  plough  upon  it 
where  it  had  been  left  last  night  when  the  horses  were  un- 
yoked ;  beyond  a  quiet  coppice-w^ood,  in  which  many  leaves 
of  burning  red  and  golden  yellow  still  remained  upon  the 
trees.  Though  the  earth  was  cold  and  wet,  the  sky  was 
clear,  and  the  sun  rose  bright,  placid,  and  beautiful. 

"  Eighteen  years  !  "  said  the  passenger,  looking  at  the  sun. 
"Gracious  Creator  of  day  !  To  be  buried  alive  for  eighteen 
years ! " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  PREPARATION. 

When  the  mail  got  successfully  to  Dover,  in  the  course  of 
the  forenoon,  the  head  drawer  at  Royal  George  Hotel  opened 
the  coach-door  as  his  custom  was.  He  did  it  with  some  flour- 
ish of  ceremony,  for  a  mail  journey  from  London  in  winter 
was  an  achievement  to  congratulate  an  adventurous  traveller 
upon. 

By  that  time  there  was  only  one  adventurous  traveller  left 
to  be  congratulated :  for  the  two  others  had  been  set  down  at 
their  respective  roadside  destinations.  The  mildewy  inside 
of  the  coach,  with  its  damp  and  dirty  straw,  its  disagreeable 
smell  and  its  obscurity,  was  rather  like  a  larger  dog-kennel.  Mr. 
Lorry,  the  passenger,  shaking  himself  out  of  it  in  chains  ot 
straw,  a  tangle  of  shaggy  wrapper,  flapping  hat,  and  muddy 
legs,  was  rather  like  a  larger  sort  of  dog. 

There  will  be  a  packet  to  Calais,  to-morrow,  drawer?  " 
Yes,  sir,  if  the  weather  holds  and  the  wind  sets  tolerable 
fair.  The  tide  will  serve  pretty  nicely  at  about  two  in  the  after- 
noon, sir.    Bed,  sir  ? 

"  I  shall  not  go  to  bed  till  night ;  but  I  want  a  bedroom, 
and  a  barber." 

^'^  And  then  breakfast,  sir  ?  Yes,  sir.  That  way,  sir,  if 
you  please.  Show  Concord  !  Gentleman's  valise  and  hot 
water  to  Concord.    Pull  off  gentleman's  boots  in  Concord. 


20  A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

St 

(You  will  find  a  fine  sea-coal  fire,  sir.)  Fetch  barber  to  Con» 
cord.    Stir  about  there,  now,  for  Concord  !  " 

The  Concord  bed-chamber  being  always  assigned  to  a 
passenger  by  the  mail,  and  passengers  by  the  mail  being 
always  heavily  wrapped  up  from  head  to  foot,  the  room  had 
the  odd  interest  for  the  establishment  of  the  Royal  George, 
that  although  but  one  kind  of  man  was  seen  to  go  into  it,  all 
kinds  and  varieties  of  men  came  out  of  it.  Consequently  an- 
other drawer,  and  two  porters,  and  several  maids  and  the 
landlady,  were  all  loitering  by  accident  at  various  points  of 
the  road  between  the  Concord  and  the  coffee-room,  when  a 
gentleman  of  sixty,  formally  dressed  in  a  brown  suit  of  clothes, 
pretty  well  worn,  but  very  well  kept,  with  large  square  cuffs 
and  large  flaps  to  the  pockets,  passed  along  on  his  way  to  his 
breakfast. 

The  coffee-room  had  no  other  occupant  that  forenoon, 
than  the  gentleman  in  brown.  His  breakfast-table  was  drawn 
before  the  fire,  and  as  he  sat,  with  its  light  shining  on  him, 
waiting  for  the  meal,  he  sat  so  still,  that  he  might  have  been 
sitting  for  his  portrait. 

Very  orderly  and  methodical  he  looked,  with  a  hand  on 
each  knee^  and  a  loud  watch  ticking  a  sonorous  sermon  under 
his  flapped  waistcoat,  as  though  it  pitted  its  gravity  and 
longevity  against  the  levity  and  evanescence  of  the  brisk  fire. 
He  had  a  good  leg,  and  was  a  little  vain  of  it,  for  his  brown 
stockings  fitted  sleek  and  close,  and  were  of  a  fine  texture  ; 
his  shoes  and  buckles,  too,  though  plain,  were  trim.  He  wore 
an  odd  little  sleek  crisp  flaxen  wig,  setting  very  close  to  his 
head :  which  wig,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  was  made  of  hair,  but 
which  looked  far  more  as  though  it  was  spun  from  filaments  of 
silk  or  glass.  His  linen,  though  not  of  a  fineness  in  accord- 
ance with  his  stockings,  was  as  white  as  the  tops  of  the  waves 
that  broke  upon  the  neighboring  beach,  or  the  specks  of  sail 
that  glinted  in  the  sunlight  far  at  sea.  A  face  habitually 
suppressed  and  quieted,  was  still  lighted  up  under  the  quaint 
wig  by  a  pair  of  moist  bright  eyes  that  it  must  have  cost  their 
owner  in  years  gone  by,  some  pains  to  drill  to  the  composed 
and  reserved  expression  of  Tellson's  Bank.  He  had  a  healthy 
color  in  his  cheeks,  and  his  face,  though  lined,  bore  few  traces 
of  anxiety.  But,  perhaps  the  confidential  bachelor  clerks  in 
Tellson's  Bank  were  principally  occupied  with  the  cares  of 
other  people  ;  and  perhaps  second-hand  cares,  like  second- 
hand clothes,  come  easily  off  and  on. 


THE  PREPARATIOJV. 


21 


Completing  his  resemblance  to  a  man  who  was  sitting  for 
his  portrait,  Mr.  Lorry  dropped  off  to  sleep.  The  arrival  of 
his  breakfast  roused  him,  and  he  said  to  the  drawer,  as  he 
moved  his  chair  to  it : 

"  I  wish  accommodation  prepared  for  a  young  lady  who 
may  come  here  at  any  time  to-day.  She  may  ask  for  Mr. 
Jarvis  Lorry,  or  she  may  only  ask  for  a  gentleman  from 
Tellson's  Bank.    Please  to  let  me  know." 

"  Yes,  sir.    Tellson's  Bank  in  London,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes.'' 

"Yes,  sir.  We  have  oftentimes  the  honor  to  entertait:' 
your  gentlemen  in  their  travellmg  backwards  and  forwards 
betwixt  London  and  Paris,  sir.  A  vast  deal  of  travelling, 
sir,  in  Tellson  and  Company's  House." 

"  Yes.  We  are  quite  a  French  House,  as  well  as  an  Eng- 
lish one." 

"  Yes,  sir.  Not  much  in  the  habit  of  such  travelling  your- 
self, I  think,  sir?" 

"  Not  of  late  years.  It  is  fifteen  years  since  we — since  I 
— came  last  from  France." 

Indeed,  sir }  That  was  before  my  time  here,  sir.  Before 
our  people's  time  here,  sir.  The  George  was  in  other  hands 
at  that  time,  sir. 

"  I  believe  so." 

"  But  I  would  hold  a  pretty  wager,  sir,  that  a  House  like 
Tellson  and  Company  was  flourishing,  a  matter  of  fifty,  not  to 
to  speak  of  fifteen  years  ago  ?  " 

"You  might  treble  that  and  say  a  hundred  and  fifty,  yet 
not  be  far  from  the  truth." 

"  Indeed,  sir  !  "  \ 

Rounding  his  mouth  and  both  his  eyes,  as  he  stepped 
backward  from  the  table,  the  waiter  shifted  his  napkin  from 
his  right  arm  to  his  left,  dropped  into  a  comfortable  attitude^ 
and  stood  surveying  the  guest  while  he  ate  and  drank,  as  from 
an  observatory  or  watch-tower.  According  to  the  immemorial 
usage  of  waiters  in  all  ages. 

When  Mr.  Lorry  had  finished  his  breakfast,  he  went  out 
for  a  stroll  on  the  beach.  The  little  narrow,  crooked  town  of 
Dover  hid  itself  away  from  the  beach,  and  ran  its  head  into 
the  chalk  cliffs,  like  a  marine  ostrich.  The  beach  was  a 
desert  of  heaps  of  sea  and  stones  tumbling  wildly  about,  and 
the  sea  did  what  it  liked,  and  what  it  liked  was  destruction. 
It  thundered  at  the  town  and  thundered  at  the  cliffs,  and 


22 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


brought  the  coast  down,  madly.  The  air  among  the  houses 
was  of  so  strong  a  piscatory  flavor  that  one  might  have  sup- 
posed sick  fish  went  up  to  be  dipped  in  it,  as  sick  people  went 
down  to  be  dipped  in  the  sea.  A  little  fishing  was  done  in 
the  port,  and  a  quantity  of  strolling  about  by  night,  and  look- 
ing seaward  :  particularly  at  those  times  when  the  tide  made 
I  and  was  near  flood.  Small  tradesmen,  who  did  no  business 
whatever,  sometimes  unaccountably  realized  large  fortunes, 
and  it  was  remarkable  that  nobody  in  the  neighborhood  could 
endure  a  lamplighter. 

As  the  day  declined  into  the  afternoon,  and  the  air,  which 
had  been  at  intervals  clear  enough  to  allow  the  French  coast 
to  be  seen,  became  again  charged  with  mist  and  vapor,  Mr. 
Lorry's  thoughts  seemed  to  cloud  too.  When  it  was  dark, 
and  he  sat  before  the  coffee-room  fire,  awaiting  his  dinner  as 
he  had  awaited  his  breakfast,  his  mind  was  busily  digging, 
digging,  digging,  in  the  live  red  coals. 

A  bottle  of  good  claret  after  dinner  does  a  digger  in  the 
red  coals  no  harm,  otherwise  than  as  it  has  a  tendency  to 
throw  him  out  of  work.  Mr.  Lorry  had  been  idle  a  long  time, 
and  had  just  poured  out  his  last  glassful  of  wine  with  as  com- 
plete an  appearance  of  satisfaction  as  is  ever  to  be  found  in 
an  elderly  gentleman  of  a  fresh  complexion  who  has  got  to  the 
end  of  a  bottle,  when  a  rattling  of  wheels  came  up  the  narrow 
street  and  rumbled  into  the  inn-yard. 

He  set  down  his  glass  untouched.      This  is  Mam'selle 
said  he. 

In  a  very  few  minutes  the  waiter  came  in  to  announce  that 
Miss  Manette  had  arrived  from  London,  and  would  be  happy 
to  see  the  gentleman  from  Tellson's. 
So  soon.?" 

Miss  Manette  had  taken  some  refreshment  on  the  road, 
and  required  none  then,  and  was  extremely  anxious  to  see  the 
gentleman  from  Tellson's  immediately,  if  it  suited  his  pleasure 
and  convenience. 

The  gentleman  from  Tellson's  had  nothing  left  for  it  but 
to  empty  his  glass  with  an  air  of  stolid  desperation,  settle  his 
odd  little  flaxen  wig  at  the  ears,  and  follow  the  waiter  to  Mis3 
Manette's  apartment.  It  was  a  large,  dark  room,  furnished  in 
a  funereal  manner  with  black  horsehair,  and  loaded  with  heavy 
dark  tables.  These  had  been  oiled  and  oiled,  until  the  two 
tall  candles  on  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  were 
gloomily  reflected  on  every  leaf  ;  as  if  they  were  buried,  in  deep 


THE  PREPARA  TION, 


23 


graves  of  black  mahogany,  and  no  light  to  speak  of  could  be 
expected  from  them  until  they  were  dug  out. 

The  obscurity  was  so  difficult  to  penetrate,  that  Mr.  Lorry, 
picking  his  way  over  the  well-worn  Turkey  carpet,  supposed 
Miss  Manette  to  be,  for  the  moment,  in  some  adjacent  room, 
until,  having  got  past  the  two  tall  candles,  he  saw  standing  to 
receive  him  by  the  table  between  them  and  the  fire,  a  young 
lady  of  not  more  than  seventeen,  in  a  riding-cloak,  and  still 
holding  her  straw  travelling-hat  by  its  ribbon  in  her  hand.  As 
his  eyes  rested  on  a  short,  slight,  pretty  figure,  a  quantity  of 
golden  hair,  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  that  met  his  own  with  an  in- 
quiring look,  and  a  forehead  with  a  singular  capacity  (remem- 
bering how  young  and  smooth  it  was),  of  lifting  and  knitting  it- 
self into  an  expression  that  was  not  quite  one  of  perplexity,  or 
wonder,  or  alarm,  or  merely  of  a  bright  fixed  attention,  though 
it  included  all  the  four  exjDressions — as  his  eyes  rested  on 
these  things,  a  sudden  vivid  likeness  passed  before  him,  of  a 
child  whom  he  had  held  in  his  arms  on  the  passage  across 
that  very  Channel,  one  cold  time,  when  the  hail  drifted  heavily 
and  the  sea  ran  high.  The  likeness  passed  away,  like  a  breath 
along  the  surface  of  the  gaunt  pier-glass  behind  her,  on  the 
frame  of  which,  a  hospital  procession  of  negro  cupids,  several 
headless  and  all  cripples,  w^ere  offering  black  baskets  of  Dead 
Sea  fruit  to  black  divinities  of  the  feminine  gender — and  he 
made  his  formal  bow  to  Miss  Manette. 

"  Pray  take  a  seat,  sir."  In  a  very  clear  and  pleasant 
young  voice  ;  a  little  foreign  in  its  accent,  but  a  very  little  in- 
deed. 

"  I  kiss  your  hand,  miss,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  with  the  man- 
jfiers  of  an  earlier  date,  as  he  made  his  formal  bow  again,  and 
took  his  seat. 

"I  received  a  letter  from  the  Bank,  sir,  yesterday,  inform- 
ing me  that  some  intelligence — or  discovery  " 

"  The  word  is  not  material,  miss  ;  either  word  will  do." 
— respecting  the  small  property  of  my  poor  father,  whom 
I  never  saw — so  long  dead  " 

Mr.  Lorry  moved  in  his  chair,  and  cast  a  troubled  look 
towards  the  hospital  procession  of  negro  cupids.  As  if  ihey 
had  any  help  for  anybody  in  their  absurd  baskets  ! 

" — rendered  it  necessary  that  I  should  go  to  Paris,  there 
to  communicate  with  a  gentleman  of  the  Bank,  so  good  as  to 
be  despatched  to  Paris  for  the  purpose." 

"Myself." 
2 


24 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


"  As  I  was  prepared  to  hear,  sir." 

She  curtseyed  to  him  (young  ladies  made  curtseys  in  those 
days),  with  a  pretty  desire  to  convey  to  him  that  she  felt  how 
much  older  and  wiser  he  was  than  she.  He  made  her  another 
bow. 

"  I  replied  to  the  Bank,  sir,  that  as  it  was  considered  ne- 
cessary, by  those  who  know,  and  who  are  so  kind  as  to  advise 
me,  that  I  should  go  to  France,  and  that  as  I  am  an  orphan 
and  have  no  friend  who  could  go  with  me,  I  should  esteem  it 
highly  if  I  might  be  permitted  to  place  myself,  during  the 
journey,  under  that  worthy  gentleman's  protection.  The  gen- 
tleman had  left  London,  but  I  think  a  messenger  was  sent 
after  him  to  beg  the  favor  of  his  waiting  for  me  here.'' 

"  I  was  happy,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  *'to  be  entrusted  with  the 
charge.    I  shall  be  more  happy  to  execute  it." 

"  Sir,  I  thank  you  indeed.  I  thank  you  very  gratefully. 
It  was  told  me  by  the  Bank  that  the  gentleman  would  explain 
to  me  the  details  of  the  business,  and  that  I  must  prepare  my- 
self to  find  them  of  a  surprising  nature^.  I  have  done  my  best 
to  prepare  myself,  and  I  naturally  have  a  strong  and  eager 
interest  to  know  what  they  are." 

"  Naturally,"  said  Mr.  Lorry.    "  Yes— I  " 

After  a  pause,  he  added,  again  settling  the  crisp  flaxen  wig 
at  the  ears  : 

"  It  is  very  difficult  to  begin." 

He  did'not  begin,  but,  in  his  indecision,  met  her  glance. 
The  young  forehead  lifted  itself  into  that  singular  expression 
— but  it  was  pretty  and  characteristic,  besides  being  singula! 
— and  she  raised  her  hand,  as  if  with  an  involuntary  action 
she  caught  at,  or  stayed  some  passing  shadow. 

"  Are  you  quite  a  stranger  to  me,  sir  ?  " 

"  Am  I  not  ?  "  Mr.  Lorry  opened  his  hands,  and  extended 
them  outwards  with  an  argumentative  smile. 

Between  the  eyebrows  and  just  over  the  little  feminine 
nose,  the  line  of  which  was  as  delicate  and  fine  as  it  was  pos- 
sible to  be,  the  expression  deepened  itself  as  she  took  her  seat 
thoughtfully  in  the  chair  by  which  she  had  hitherto  remained 
standing.  He  watched  her  as  she  mused,  and  the  moment 
she  raised  her  eyes  again,  went  on : 

"  In  your  adopted  country,  I  presume,  I  cannot  do  better 
than  address  you  as  a  young  English  lady.  Miss  Manette  ? " 

"  If  you  please,  sir." 

**  Miss  Manette,  I  am  a  man  of  business.    I  have  a  busi 


THE  PREP/^A  TION. 


25 


ness  charge  to  acquit  myself  of.    In  your  reception  of  it,  don't 
heed  me  any  more  than  if  I  was  a  speaking  machine — truly,  I 
am  not  much  else.    I  will,  with  your  leave,  relate  to. you,  miss, 
the  story  of  one  of  our  customers. 
Story 

He  seemed  wilfully  to  mistake  the  word  she  had  repeated, 
when  he  added,  in  a  hurry,  "Yes,  customers  ;  in  the  banking 
business  we  usually  call  our  connection  our  customers.  He 
was  a  French  gentleman  ;  a  scientific  gentleman  ;  a  man  of 
great  acquirements — a  Doctor." 

"  Not  of  Beauvais  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  of  Beauvais.  Like  Monsieur  Manette,  your 
father,  the  gentleman  was  of  Beauvais.  Like  Monsieur  Ma- 
nette, your  father,  the  gentleman  was  of  repute  in  Paris.  I 
had  the  honor  of  knowing  him  there.  Our  relations  were 
business  relations,  but  confidential.  I  was  at  that  time,  in  our 
French  House,  and  had  been — oh  !  twenty  years. 

"  At  that  time — I  may  ask,  at  what  time,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  speak,  miss,  of  twenty  years  ago.  He  married — an 
English  lady — and  I  was  one  of  the  trustees.  His  affairs, 
like  the  affairs  of  mqny  other  French  gentlemen  and  French 
iamilies,  were  entirely  in  Tellson's  hands.  In  a  similar  way  I 
am,  or  I  have  been,  trustee  of  one  kind  or  other  for  scores  of 
our  customers.  These  are  mere  business  .relations,  miss; 
there  is  no  friendship  in  them,  no  particular  interest,  nothing 
like  sentiment.  I  have  passed  from  one  to  another,  in  the 
course  of  my  business  life,  just  as  I  pass  from  one  of  our  cus- 
tomers to  another  in  the  course  of  my  business  day ;  in  short, 
I  have  no  feelings ;  I  am  a  mere  machine.    To  go  on  " 

"  But  this  is  my  father's  story,  sir ;  and  I  begin  to  think  " 
— the  curiously  roughened  forehead  was  very  intent  upon  him 
— "  that  when  I  was  left  an  orphan  through  my  mother's  sur- 
viving my  father  only  two  years,  it  was  you  who  brought  me 
to  England.    I  am  almost  sure  it  was  you." 

Mr.  Lorry  took  the  hesitating  little  hand  that  confidingly 
advanced  to  take  his,  and  he  put  it  Vv'ith  some  ceremony  to  his 
lips.  He  then  conducted  the  young  lady  straightway  to  her 
chair  again,  and,  holding  the  chair-back  with  his  left  hand,  and 
using  his  right  by  turns  to  rub  his  chin,  pull  his  wig  at  the 
ears,  or  point  what  he  said,  stood  looking  down  into  her  face 
while  she  sat  looking  up  into  his. 

"  Miss  Manette,  it  7vas  I.  And  you  will  see  how  truly  I 
spoke  of  myself  just  now,  in  saying  I  had  no  feelings,  and  that 


26 


A  TALE  Of'  TWO  CITIES, 


all  the  relations  I  hold  with  my  fellow-creatures  are  mere 
business  relations,  when  you  reflect  that  I  have  never  seen  you 
since.  No  ;  you  have  been  the  ward  of  Tellson's  House  since, 
and  I  have  been  busy  with  the  other  business  of  Tellson's 
House  since.  Feelings !  I  have  no  time  for  them,  no  ghance 
of  them.  I  pass  my  whole  life,  miss,  in  turning  an  immense 
pecuniary  Mangle.'' 

After  this  odd  description  of  his  daily  routine  of  employ-^ 
ment,  Mr.  Lorry  flattened  his  flaxen  wdg  upon  his  head  with 
both  hands  (which  was  most  unnecessar}'-,  for  nothing  coul.l 
be  flatter  than  its  shining  surface  was  before),  and  resumed 
his  former  attitude. 

"  So  far,  miss  (as  you  have  remarked),  this  is  the  stoiy  of 
your  regretted  father.    Now  comes  the  difference.    If  your 

father  had  not  died  when  he  did  Don't  be  frightened  ! 

How  you  start !  " 

She  did,  indeed,  start.  And  she  caught  his  wrist  with 
both  her  hands. 

"Pray,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  in  a  soothing  tone,  bringing  his 
left  hand  from  the  back  of  the  chair  to  lay  it  on  the  supplica- 
tory fingers  that  clasped  him  in  so  violent  a  tremble  :  ''pray 
control  your  agitation — a  matter  of  business.  As  I  was  say- 
ing " 

Her  look  so  discomposed  him  that  he  stopped,  wandered, 
and  began  anew : 

"As  I  was  saying ;  if  Monsieur  Manette  had  not  died  ;  if 
he  had  suddenly  and  silently  disappeared  ;  if  he  had  been  spir- 
ited away  ;  if  it  had  not  been  difficult  to  guess  to  what  dreadful 
place,  though  no  art  could  trace  him  ;  if  he  had  an  enemy  in 
some  compatriot  who  could  exercise  a  privilege  that  I  in  my 
own  time  have  known  the  boldest  people  afraid  to  speak  of  in  a 
whisper,  across  the  water  there  ;  for  instance,  the  privilege  of 
filling  up  blank  forms  for  the  consignment  of  any  one  to  the 
oblivion  of  a  prison  for  any  length  of  time  ;  if  his  \yife  had 
implored  the  king,  the  queen,  the  court,  the  clergy,  for  any  ti- 
dings of  him,  and  all  quite  in  vain  ; — then  the  history  of  your 
father  would  have  been  the  history  of  this  unfortunate  gentle- 
man,  the  Doctor  of  Beauvais." 

"  I  entreat  you  to  tell  me  more,  sir." 

"  I  will.    I  am  going  to.    You  can  bear  it  " 

"  I  can  bear  anything  but  the  uncertainty  you  leave  me  in 
at  this  moment." 

"You  speak  collectedly,  and  you  (^r^  collected.  That's 


THE  PREPARA  TION. 


27 


good ! (Though  his  manner  was  less  satisfied  than  his 
words.)  "  A  matter  of  business.  Regard  it  as  a  matter  of 
business — business  that  must  be  done.  Now  if  this  doctor's 
wife,  though  a  lady  of  great  courage  and  spirit,  had  suffered 
so  intensely  from  this  cause  before  her  little  child  was 
born  " 

"  The  little  child  was  a  daughter,  sir.'^ 

"  A  daughter.  A — a — matter  of  business — don't  be  dis- 
tressed. Miss,  if  the  poor  lady  had  suffered  so  intensely  be- 
fore her  little  child  was  born,  that  she  came  to  the  determina- 
tion of  sparing  the  poor  child  the  inheritance  of  any  part  of  the 
agony  she  had  known  the  pains  of,  by  rearing  her  in  the  be- 
lief that  her  father  was  dead  No,  don't  kneel !  In  Heav- 
en's name  w^hy  should  you  kneel  to  me  ! " 

For  the  truth.  O  dear,  good,  compassionate  sir,  for  the 
truth  ! 

A — a  matter  of  business.  You  confuse  me,  and  how  can 
I  transact  business  if  I  am  confused  ?  Let  us  be  clear-headed. 
If  you  could  kindly  mention  now,  for  instance,  what  nine 
times  ninepence  are,  or  how  many  shillings  in  twenty  guineas, 
it  would  be  so  encouraging.  I  should  be  so  much  more  at 
my  ease  about  your  state  of  mind." 

Without  directly  answering  to  this  appeal,  she  sat  so  still 
when  he  had  very  gently  raised  her,  and  the  hands  that  had 
not  ceased  to  clasp  his  wrists  were  so  much  more  steady  than 
they  had  been,  that  she  communicated  some  re-assurance  to 
Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry. 

"  That's  right,  that's  right.  Courage  !  Business  !  You 
have  business  before  you;  useful  business.  Miss  Manette, 
your  mother  took  this  course  with  you.  And  when  she  died 
— I  believe  broken-hearted — having  never  slackened  her  un- 
availing search  for  your  father,  she  left  you,  at  two  years  old, 
to  grow  to  be  blooming,  beautiful,  and  happy,  without  the 
dark  cloud  upon  you  of  living  in  uncertainty  whether  your 
father  soon  wore  his  heart  out  in  prison,  or  wasted  there 
through  many  lingering  years." 

As  he  said  the  words  he  looked  down,  with  an  admiring 
pity,  on  the  flowing  golden  hair  ;  as  if  he  pictured  to  himself 
that  it  might  have  been  already  tinged  with  gray. 

"  You  know  that  your  parents  had  no  great  possession, 
and  that  what  they  had  was  secured  to  your  mother  and  to  you. 
There  has  been  no  new  discovery,  of  money,  or  of  any  other 
property  ;  but  " 


28 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIEj^, 


He  felt  his  wrist  held  closer,  and  he  stopped.  The  ex* 
pression  in  the  forehead,  which  had  so  particularly  attracted 
his  notice,  and  which  was  now  immovable,  had  deepened  into 
one  of  pain  and  horror. 

"  But  he  has  been — been  found.  He  is  alive.  Greatly 
changed,  it  is  too  probable  ;  almost  a  wreck,  it  is  possible  ; 
though  we  will  hope  the  best.  Still,  alivf'  Your  father  has 
been  taken  to  the  house  of  an  old  servant  in  Paris,  and  we 
are  going  there  :  I,  to  identify  him  if  I  can  :  you,  to  restore 
him  to  life,  love,  duty,  rest,  comfort." 

A  shiver  ran  through  her  frame,  and  from  it  through  his. 
She  said,  in  a  low,  distinct,  awe-stricken  voice,  as  if  she  were 
saying  it  in  a  dream, 

I  am  going  to  see  his  Ghost !  It  will  be  his  Ghost — not 
him  !  " 

Mr.  Lorry  quietly  chafed  the  hands  that  held  his  arm. 
"  There,  there,  there  !  See  now,  see  now !  The  best  and 
the  worst  are  known  to  you,  now.  You  are  well  on  your  way 
to  the  poor  wronged  gentleman,  and,  with  a  fair  sea  voyage, 
and  a  fair  land  journey,  you  will  soon  be  at  his  dear  side." 

She  repeated  in  the  same  tone,  sunk  to  a  whisper,  I  have 
been  free,  I  have  been  happy,  yet  his  Ghost  has  never  haunted 
me  ! " 

"  Only  one  thing  more,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  liying  stress  upon 
it  as  a  wholesome  means  of  enforcing  her  attention  :  "  he  has 
been  found  under  another  name  ;  his  own,  long  forgotten  or 
long  concealed.  It  would  be  worse  than  useless  now  to  in- 
quire which ;  worse  than  useless  to  seek  to  know  whether  he 
has  been  for  years  overlooked,  or  always  designedly  held 
prisoner.  It  would  be  worse  than  useless  now  to  make 
any  inquiries,  because  it  would  be  dangerotis.  Better  not  to 
mention  the  subject,  anywhere  or  in  any  way,  and  to  remove 
him — for  awhile  at  all  events — out  of  France.  Even  I,  safe 
as  an  Englishman,  and  even  Tellson's,  important  as  they  are 
to  French  credit,  avoid  all  naming  of  the  matter.  I  carry 
about  me,  not  a  scrap  of  writing  openly  referring  to  it.  This 
is  a  secret  service  altogether.  My  credentials,  entries,  and 
memoranda,  are  all  comprehended  in  the  one  line,  ^  Recalled 
to  Life  ; '  which  may  mean  anything.  But  what  is  the  mat- 
ter !    She  doesn't  notice  a  word  !    Miss  Manette  !  " 

Perfectly  still  and  silent,  and  not  even  fallen  back  in  her 
chair,  she  sat  under  his  hand,  utterly  insensible  ;  with  her 
eyes  open  and  fixed  upon  him,  and  with  that  last  expression 


THE  PREPARA  TION. 


29 


looking  as  if  it  were  carved  or  branded  into  her  forehead 
So  close  was  her  hold  upon  his  arm,  that  he  feared  to  detach 
himself  lest  he  should  hurt  her ;  therefore  he  called  out 
loudly  for  assistance  without  moving. 

A  wild-looking  woman,  whom  even  in  his  agitation,  Mr. 
Lorry  observed  to  be  all  of  a  red  color,  and  to  have  red  hair, 
and  to  be  dressed  in  some  extraordinary  tight-fitting  fashion, 
and  to  have  on  her  head  a  most  wonderful  bonnet  like  a 
Grenadier  wooden  measure,  and  good  measure  too,  or  a  great 
Stilton  cheese,  came  running  into  the  room  in  advance  of  the 
inn  servants,  and  soon  settled  the  question  of  his  detachment 
from  the  poor  young  lady,  by  laying  a  brawny  hand  upon  his 
chest,  and  sending  him  flying  back  against  the  nearest  wall. 

C  I  really  think  this  must  be  a  man  !  "  was  Mr.  Lorry's 
breathless  reflection,  simultaneously  with  his  coming  against 
the  wall). 

"  Why,  look  at  you  all  ! "  bawled  this  figure,  addressing 
the  inn  servants.  "  Why  don't  you  go  and  fetch  things,  in- 
stead of  standing  there  staring  at  me  1  I  am  not  so  much  to 
look  at,  am  I  ?  Why  don't  you  go  and  fetch  things  ?  I'll  let 
you  know,  if  you  don't  bring  smelling-salts,  cold  water,  and 
vinegar,  quick,  I  will." 

There  was  an  immediate  dispersal  for  these  restoratives, 
and  she  softly  laid  the  patient  on  a  sofa,  and  tended  her  with 
great  skill  and  gentleness  :  calling  her  "  my  precious  !  "  and 
"my  bird!"  and  spreading  her  golden  hair  aside  over  her 
shoulders  with  great  pride  and  care. 

"  And  you  in  brown  !  "  she  saic  ^  indignantly  turning  to  Mr. 
Lorry  ;  couldn't  you  tell  her  what  you  had  to  tell  her,  without 
frightening  her  to  death  }  Look  at  her,  with  her  pretty  pale 
face  and  her  cold  hands.    Do  you  call  that  being  a  Banker }  " 

Mr.  Lorry  was  so  exceedingly  disconcerted  by  a  question 
so  hard  to  answer,  that  he  could  only  look  on,  at  a  distance, 
with  much  feebler  sympathy  and  humility,  while  the  strong 
woman,  having  banished  the  inn  servants  under  the  mysterious 
penalty  of  "  letting  them  know  "  something  not  mentioned  if 
they  stayed  there,  staring,  recovered  her  charge  by  a  regular 
series  of  gradations,  and  coaxed  her  to  lay  her  drooping  head 
upon  her  shoulder. 

"  I  hope  she  will  do  well  now,"  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

"  No  thanks  to  you  in  brown,  if  she  does.  My  darling 
pretty ! " 

"  I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  after  another  pause  of  feeble 


3© 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


sympathy  and  humility,  "  that  you  accompany  Miss  Manette 
to  France  ? 

"  A  likely  thing,  too  !  replied  the  strong  woman.  "  If  it 
was  ever  intended  that  I  should  go  across  salt  water,  do  you 
suppose  Providence  would  have  cast  my  lot  in  an  island  ?  " 

This  being  another  question  hard  to  answer,  Mr.  Jarvis 
Lorry  withdrew  to  consider  it. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  WINE-SHOP. 

A  LARGE  cask  of  wine  had  been  dropped  and  broken,  in 
the  street.  The  accident  had  happened  in  getting  it  out  of  a 
cart ;  the  cask  had  tumbled  out  with  a  run,  the  hoops  had 
burst,  and  it  lay  on  the  stones  just  outside  the  door  of  the 
wine-shop,  shattered  like  a  walnut-shell. 

All  the  people  within  reach  had  suspended  their  business, 
or  their  idleness,  to  run  to  the  spot  and  drink  the  wine.  The 
rough,  irregular  stones  of  the  street,  pointing  every  way,  and 
designed,  one  might  have  thought,  expressly  to  lame  all  living 
creatures  that  approached  them,  had  damned  it  into  little 
pools  ;  these  were  surrounded,  each  by  its  own  jostling  group 
or  crowd,  according  to  its  size.  Some  men  kneeled  down, 
made  scoops  of  their  two  hands  joined,  and  sipped,  or  tried  to 
help  women,  who  bent  over  their  shoulders,  to  sip,  before  the 
wine  had  all  run  out  between  their  fingers.  Others,  men  and 
women,  dipped  in  the  puddles  with  little  mugs  of  mutilated 
earthenware,  or  even  with  handkerchiefs  from  women's  heads, 
which  were  squeezed  dry  into  infants'  mouths  ;  others  made 
small  mud-embankments,  to  stem  the  wine  as  it  ran  ;  others, 
directed  by  lookers-on  up  at  high  windows,  darted  here  and 
there,  to  cut  off  little  streams  of  wine  that  started  away  in  new 
directions  ;  others  devoted  themselves  to  the  sodden  and  lee- 
dyed  pieces  of  the  cask,  licking,  and  even  champing  the 
moister  wine-rotted  fragments  with  eager  relish.  There  was 
no  drainage  to  carry  off  the  wine,  and  not  only  did  it  all  get 
taken  up,  but  so  much  mud  got  taken  up  along  with  it,  that 
tkere  might  have  been  a  scavenger  in  the  street,  if  anybody 


THE  WINE-SHOP. 


3» 


acquainted  with  it  could  have  beUeved  in  such  a  miraculous 
presence. 

A  shrill  sound  of  laughter  and  of  amused  voices — ^voices 
of  men,  women,  and  children — resounded  in  the  street  v/hile 
this  wine  game  lasted.  There  was  little  roughness  in  the 
sport,  and  much  playfulness.  There  was  a  special  companion 
ship  in  it,  an  observable  inclination  on  the  part  of  every  one 
to  join  some  other  one,  which  led,  especially  among  the 
luckier  or  light-hearted,  to  frolicsome  embraces,  drinking  of 
healths,  shaking  of  hands,  and  even  joining  of  hands  and 
dancing,  a  dozen  together.  When  the  wine  was  gone,  and  the 
places  where  it  had  been  most  abundant  were  raked  into  a 
gridiron-pattern  by  fingers,  these  demonstrations  ceased,  as 
suddenly  as  they  had  broken  out.  The  man  who  had  left  his 
saw  sticking  in  the  firewood  he  was  cutting,  set  it  in  motion 
again  ;  the  woman  who  had  left  on  the  door-step  the  little  pot 
of  hot  ashes,  at  which  she  had  been  trying  to  soften  the  pain 
in  her  own  starved  fingers  and  toes,  or  in  those  of  her  child, 
returned  to  it ;  men  with  bare  arms,  matted  locks,  and 
cadaverous  faces,  who  had  emerged  into  the  winter  light  from 
cellars  moved  away,  to  descend  again  ;  and  a  gloom  gathered 
on  the  scene  that  appeared  more  natural  to  it  than  sunshine. 

The  wine  was  red  wine,  and  had  stained  the  ground  of  the 
narrow  street  in  the  suburb  of  Saint  Antoine,  in  Paris,  where 
it  was  spilled.  It  had  stained  many  hands,  too,  and  many 
faces,  and  many  naked  feet,  and  many  wooden  shoes.  The 
hands  of  the  man  who  sawed  the  wood,  left  red  marks  on  the 
billets  ;  and  the  forehead  of  the  woman  who  nursed  her  baby, 
was  stained  with  the  stain  of  the  old  rag  she  wound  about  her 
head  again.  Those  who  had  been  greedy  with  the  staves  of 
the  cask,  had  acquired  a  tigerish  smear  about  the  mouth  ;  and 
one  tall  joker  so  besmirched,  his  head  more  out  of  a  long 
squalid  bag  of  a  night-cap  than  in  it,  scrawled  upon  a  wall 
with  his  finger  dipped  in  muddy  wine-lees — Blood. 

The  time  was  to  come,  when  that  wine  too  would  be  spilled 
on  the  street-stones,  and  when  the  stain  of  it  would  be  red 
upon  many  there. 

And  now  that  the  cloud  settled  upon  Saint  Antoine,  which 
a  momentary  gleam  had  driven  from  his  sacred  countenance, 
the  darkness  of  it  was  heavy — cold,  dirt,  sickness,  ignorance, 
and  want,  were  the  lords  in  waiting  on  the  saintly  presence — - 
nobles  of  great  power  all  of  them  ;  but,  most  especially  the 
last.    Samples  of  a  people  that  had  undergone  a  terrible  grind 


32 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


ing  and  re-grinding  in  the  mill,  and  certainly  not  in  the 
fabulous  mill  which  ground  old  people  young,  shivered  at  every 
corner,  passed  in  and  out  at  every  doorway,  looked  from  every 
window,  fluttered  in  every  vestige  of  a  garment  that  the  wind 
shook.  The  mill  which  had  worked  them  down,  was  the  mill 
that  grinds  young  people  old ;  the  children  had  ancient  faces 
and  grave  voices  ;  and  upon  them,  and  upon  the  grown  faces, 
and  ploughed  into  every  furrow  of  age  and  coming  up  afresh, 
was  the  sign.  Hunger.  It  was  prevalent  everywhere.  Hunger 
was  pushed  out  of  the  tall  houses,  in  the  wretched  clothing 
rhat  hung  upon  poles  and  lines ;  Hunger  was  patched  intcf 
them  with  straw  and  rag  and  wood  and  paper ;  Hunger  was 
repeated  in  every  fragment  of  the  small  modicum  of  firewood 
that  the  man  sawed  off  ;  Hunger  stared  down  from  the  smoke- 
less chimneys,  and  started  up  from  the  iilthy  street  that  had 
no  offal,  among  its  refuse,  of  anything  to  eat.  Hunger  was 
the  inscription  on  the  baker's  shelves,  written  in  every  small 
ioaf  of  his  s^tanty  stock  of  bad  bread  ;  at  the  sausage-shop,  in 
every  dead-dog  preparation  that  was  offered  for  sale.  Hunger 
rattled  its  dry  bones  among  the  roasting  chestnuts  in  the 
tunned  cylinder ;  Hunger  was  shred  into  atom.ies  in  every 
farthing  porringer  of  husky  chips  of  potato,  fried  with  some 
reluctant  drops  of  oil. 

Its  abiding  place  was  in  all  things  fitted  to  it.  A  narrow 
winding  street,  full  of  offence  and  stench,  with  other  narrow 
winding  streets  diverging,  all  peopled  by  rags  and  nightcaps, 
and  all  smelling  of  rags  and  nightcaps,  and  all  visible  things 
with  a  brooding  look  upon  them  that  looked  ill.  In  the 
hunted  air  of  the  people  there  was  yet  some  Avild-beast  thought 
of  the  possibility  of  turning  at  bay.  Depressed  and  slinking 
though  they  were,  eyes  of  fire  were  not  wanting  among  them  \ 
nor  compressed  lips,  white  with  what  they  suppressed  ;  nor 
foreheads  knitted  into  the  likeness  of  the  gallows-rope  they 
mused  about  enduring  or  inflicting.  The  trade  signs  (and 
they  were  almost  as  many  as  the  shops)  were,  all,  grim  illus- 
trations of  Want.  The  butcher  and  the  porkman  painted  up, 
only  the  leanest  scrags  of  meat ;  the  baker,  the  coarsest  of 
meagre  loaves.  The  people  rudely  pictured  as  drinking  in 
the  wine-shops,  croaked  over  their  scanty  measures  of  thin 
wine  and  beer,  and  wera  gloweringly  confidential  together. 
Nothing  was  represented  in  a  flourishing  condition,  save  tools 
and  weapons  ;  but,  the  cutler's  knives  and  axes  were  sharp 
and  bright,  the  smithes  hammers  were  heavy,  and  the  gui> 


THE  WINE-SHOP. 


33 


maker^s  stock  was  murderous.  The  crippling  stones  of  the 
pavement,  with  their  many  Uttle  reservoirs  of  mud  and  water, 
had  no  footways,  but  broke  off  abruptly  at  the  doors.  The 
kennel,  to  make  amends,  ran  down  the  middle  of  the  street — = 
when  it  ran  at  all :  which  was  only  after  heavy  rains,  and  then 
it  ran,  by  many  eccentric  fits,  into  the  houses.  Across  the 
streets,  at  v/ide  intervals,  one  clumsy  lamp  was  slung  by  a 
rope  and  pulley  ;  at  night,  when  the  lamplighter  had  let  these 
down,  and  lighted,  and  hoisted  them  again,  a  feeble  grove  of 
dim  wicks  swung  in  a  sickly  manner  over  head,  as  if  they  were 
at  sea.  Indeed  they  were  at  sea,  and  the  ship  and  crew  were 
in  peril  of  tempest. 

For,  the  time  was  to  come,  when  the  gaunt  scarecrows  of 
that  region  should  have  watched  the  lamplighter,  in  their  idle- 
ness and  hunger,  so  long,  as  to  conceive  the  idea  of  improving 
on  his  method,  and  hauling  up  men  by  those  ropes  and  pul- 
leys, to  flare  upon  the  darkness  of  their  condition.  But  the 
time  was  not  come  yet ;  and  every  wind  that  blew  over  France 
shook  the  rags  of  the  scarecrows  in  vain,  for  the  birds,  fine  of 
song  and  feather,  took  no  warning. 

The  wine-shop  was  a  corner  shop,  better  than  most  others 
in  its  appearance  and  degree,  and  the  master  of  the  wine-shop 
had  stood  outside  it,  in  a  yellow  waistcoat  and  green  breeches, 
looking  on  at  the  struggle  for  the  lost  wine.  "  It's  not  my 
affair,"  said  he,  with  a  final  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "The 
people  from  the  market  did  it.    Let  them  bring  another." 

There,  his  eyes  happening  to  catch  the  tall  joker  writing 
up  his  joke,  he  called  to  him  across  the  way : 

"  Say,  then,  my  Gaspard,  what  do  you  do  there  1  " 

The  fellow  pointed  to  his  joke  with  immense  significance, 
as  is  often  the  way  with  his  tribe.  It  missed  its  mark,  and 
completely  failed,  as.  is  often  the  way  with  his  tribe  too. 

"  What  now  ?  Are  you  a  subject  for  the  mad  hospital  ?  " 
^aid  the  wine-shop  keeper,  crossing  the  road,  and  obliterating 
the  jest  with  a  handful  of  mud,  picked  up  for  the  purpose,  and 
smeared  over  it.  "  Why  do  you  write  in  the  public  streets  ? 
Is  there — tell  me  thou — is  there  no  other  place  to  write  such 
words  in  ? " 

In  his  expostulation  he  dropped  his  cleaner  hand  (perhaps 
accidentally,  perhaps  not)  upon  the  joker's  heart.  The  joker 
rapped  it  with  his  own,  took  a  nimble  spring  upward,  and 
came  down  in  a  fantastic  dancing  attitude,  with  one  of  his 
stained  shoes  jerked  off  his  foot  into  his  hand,  and  held  out 


34 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


A  joker  of  an  extremely,  not  to  say  wolfishly  practical 
character,  he  looked,  under  those  circumstances. 

"Put  it  on,  put  it  on,"  said  the  other.  "Call  wine,  wine; 
and  finish  there."  With  that  advice,  he  wiped  his  soiled  hand 
upon  the  joker's  dress,  such  as  it  was — quite  deliberately,  as 
having  dirtied  the  hand  on  his  account ;  and  then  recrossed 
the  road  and  entered  the  wine-shop. 

This  wine-shop  keeper  was  a  bull-necked,  martial-looking 
man  of  thirty,  and  he  should  have  been  of  a  hot  temperament, 
for,  although  it  was  a  bitter  day,  he  wore  no  coat,  but  carried 
one  slung  over  his  slx)ulder.  His  shirt-sleeves  were  rolled  up 
too,  and  his  brown  arms  were  bare  to  the  elbows.  Neither 
did  he  wear  anything  more  on  his  head  than  his  own  crisply- 
curling  short  dark  hair.  He  w^as  a  dark  man  altogether,  with 
good  eyes  and  a  good  bold  breadth  between  them.  Good- 
humored  looking  on  the  whole,  but  implacable-looking,  too  \ 
evidently  a  man  of  a  strong  resolution  and  a  set  purpose  ;  a 
man  not  desirable  to  be  met,  rushing  down  a  narrow  pass  with 
a  gulf  on  either  side,  for  nothing  would  turn  the  man. 

Madame  Defarge,  his  wife,  sat  in  the  shop  behind  the 
counter  as  he  came  in.  Madame  Defarge  was  a  stout  woman 
of  about  his  own  age,  with  a  watchful  eye  that  seldom  seemed 
to  look  at  anything,  a  large  hand  heavily  ringed,  a  steady  face, 
strong  features  and  great  composure  of  manner.  There  was 
a  character  about  Madame  Defarge,  from  which  one  might 
have  predicated  that  she  did  not  often  make  mistakes  against 
herself  in  any  of  the  reckonings  over  which  she  presided. 
Madame  Defarge  being  sensitive  to  cold,  was  wrapped  in  fur, 
and  had  a  quantity  of  bright  shawl  twined  about  her  head, 
though  not  to  the  concealment  of  her  large  ear-rings.  Her 
knitting  was  before  her,  but  she  had  laid  it  down  to  pick  her 
teeth  with  a  toothpick.  Thus  engaged,  with  her  right  elbow 
supported  by  her  left  hand,  Madame  Defarge  said  nothing 
when  her  lord  came  in,  but  coughed  just  one  grain  of  cough. 
This,  in  combination  with  the  lifting  of  her  darkly  defined 
eyebrows  over  her  toothpick  by  the  breadth  of  a  line,  sug- 
gested to  her  husband  that  he  ^vould  do  well  to  look  round 
the  shop  among  the  customers,  for  any  new  customer  who  had 
dropped  in  while  he  stepped  over  the  w^ay. 

The  wine-shop  keeper  according  rolled  his  eyes  about, 
until  they  rested  upon  an  elderly  gentleman  and  a  young  lady 
who  were  seated  in  a  comer.  Other  company  were  there  : 
two  playing  cards,  two  playing  dominoes,  three  standing  by  tht 


THE  ir/ArE-sirop, 


35 


counter  lengthening  out  a  short  supply  of  wine.  As  he  passed 
behind  the  counter,  he  took  notice  that  the  elderly  gentleman 
said  in  a  look  to  the  young  lady,  "  This  is  our  man." 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  do  in  that  galley  there  ?  "  said 
Monsieur  Defarge  to  himself  ;  "  I  don't  know  you." 

But,  he  feigned  not  to  notice  the  two  strangers,  and  fell 
into  discourse  with  the  triumvirate  of  customers  who  were 
drinking  at  the  counter. 

"  How  goes  it,  Jacques  ?  "  said  one  of  these  three  to  Mon- 
sieur Defarge.      Is  all  the  spilt  wine  swallowed  ?  " 

"  Every  drop,  Jacques,''  answered  Monsieur  Defarge. 

When  this  interchange  of  christian  name  was  effected 
Madame  Defarge,  picking  her  teeth  with  her  toothpick, 
coughed  another  grain  of  cough,  and  raised  her  eyebrows  by 
the  breadth  of  another  line. 

"  It  is  not  often,"  said  the  second  of  the  three,  addressing 
Monsieur  Defarge,  **that  many  of  these  miserable  beasts 
know  the  taste  of  wine,  or  of  anything  but  black  bread  and 
death.    Is  it  not  so,  Jacques  ?  " 

"  It  is  so,  Jacques,"  Monsieur  Defarge  returned. 

At  this  second  interchange  of  the  christian  name,  Madame 
Defarge,  still  using  her  toothpick  with  profound  composure, 
coughed  another  grain  of  cough,  and  raised  her  eyebrows  by 
the  breadth  of  another  line. 

The  last  of  the  three  now  said  his  say,  as  he  put  down  his 
empty  drinking  vessel  and  smacked  his  lips. 

Ah !  So  much  the  worse  !  A  bitter  taste  it  is  that  such 
poor  cattle  always  have  in  their  mouths,  and  hard  lives  they 
live,  Jacques.    Am  I  right,  Jacques  ?  " 

You  are  right,  Jacques,"  was  the  response  of  Monsieur 
Defarge. 

This  third  interchange  of  the  christian  name  was  com- 
pleted at  the  moment  when  Madame  Defarge  put  her  tooth- 
pick by,  kept  her  eyebrows  up,  and  slightly  rustled  in  her  seat. 

"  Hold  then  !    True !  "  muttered  her  husband.  Gentle 

men — my  wife  !  " 

The  .  three  customers  pulled  off  their  hats  to  Madame 
Defarge,  with  three  flourishes.  She  acknowledged  their 
homage  by  bending  her  head,  and  giving  them  a  quick  look. 
Then  she  glanced  in  a  casual  manner  round  the  wine-shop, 
took  up  her  knitting  with  great  apparent  calmness  and  repose 
•f  spirit,  and  became  absorbed  in  it. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  her  husband,  who  had  kept  his  bright 


36 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


eye  observantly  upon  her,  "  good-day.  The  chamber,  fui 
nished  bachelor-fashion,  diat  you  wished  to  see,  and  were  in 
quiring  for  when  I  stepped  out,  is  on  the  fifth  floor.  The 
doorway  of  the  staircase  gives  on  the  little  court-yard  close  to 
the  left  here,''  pointing  with  his  hand,  near  to  the  window 
of  my  establishment.  But,  now  that  I  remember,  one  of  you 
has  already  been  there,  and  can  show  the  way.  Gentlemen^ 
adieu  ! 

They  paid  for  their  wine,  and  left  the  place.  The  eyes  ol 
Monsieur  Defarge  were  studying  his  wife  at  her  knitting  when 
the  elderly  gentleman  advanced  from  his  corner,  and  begged 
the  favor  of  a  word. 

"  Willingly,  sir,''  said  Monsieur  Defarge,  and  quietly  went 
with  him  to  the  door. 

Their  conference  was  very  short,  but  very  decided.  Al- 
most at  the  first  word.  Monsieur  Defarge  started  and  became 
deeply  attentive.  It  had  not  lasted  a  minute,  when  he  nodded 
and  went  out.  The  gentleman  then  becKcned  to  the  young 
lady,  and  they,  too,  went  out.  Madame  Defarge  knitted  with 
Tiimble  fingers  and  steady  eyebrows,  and  saw  nothing. 

Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  and  Miss  Manette,  emerging  from  the 
wine-shop  thus,  joined  Monsieur  Defarge  in  the  doorway  to 
which  he  had  directed  his  other  company  just  before.  It 
opened  from  a  stinking  little  black  court-yard,  and  was  the 
general  public  entrance  to  a  great  pile  of  houses,  inhabited 
by  a  great  number  of  people.  In  the  gloomy  tile-paved  entry 
to  the  gloomy  tile-paved  staircase.  Monsieur  Defarge  bent 
down  on  one  knee  to  the  child  of  his  old  master,  and  put  her 
hand  to  his  lips.  It  was  a  gentle  action,  but  not  at  all  gently 
done  ;  a  very  remarkable  transformation  had  come  over  him 
in  a  few  seconds.  He  had  no  good-humor  in  his  face,  nor 
any  openness  of  aspect  left,  but  had  become  a  secret,  angry, 
dangerous  man.  * 

It  is  very  high  ;  it  is  a  little  difficult.  Better  to  begin 
slowly."  Thus,  Monsieur  Defarge,  in  a  stern  voice,  to  Mr. 
Lorry,  as  they  began  ascending  the  stairs. 

"  Is  he  alone  ?  "  the  latter  whispered. 

"  Alone  !    God  help  him,  who  should  be  with  him  !  "  said 
the  other,  in  the  same  low  voice. 
Is  he  always  alone,  then  ? " 
"  Yes." 

Of  his  own  desire  ?  " 
"  Of  his  own  necessity.    As  he  was,  when  I  first  saw  him 


THE  WINE-SHOP, 


37 


after  they  found  me  and  demanded  to  know  if  I  would  take 
him,  and,  at  my  peril  be  discreet — as  he  was  then,  so  he  is 
now." 

"  He  is  greatly  changed  ? " 
"  Changed  !  " 

The  keeper  of  the  wine-shop  stopped  to  strike  the  waJi 
^^ith  his  hand,  and  mutter  a  tremendous  curse.  No  direct 
answer  could  have  been  half  so  forcible.  Mr.  Lorry's  spirits 
grew  heavier  and  heavier,  as  he  and  his  two  companions 
ascended  higher  and  higher. 

Such  a  staircase,  with  its  accessories  in  the  older  and 
more  crowded  parts  of  Paris,  would  be  bad  enough  now  ;  but, 
at  that  time,  it  was  vile  indeed  to  unaccustomed  and  un^ 
hardened  senses.  Every  little  habitation  within  the  great 
foul  nest  of  one  high  building — that  is  to  say,  the  room  oi 
rooms  within  every  door  that  opened  on  the  general  staircase 
— left  its  own  heap  of  refuse  on  its  own  landing,  besides 
flinging  other  refuse  from  its  own  windows.  The  uncon- 
trollable and  hopeless  mass  of  decomposition  so  engendered, 
would  have  polluted  the  air,  even  if  poverty  and  deprivation 
had  not  loaded  it  with  their  intangible  impurities  ;  the  two  bad 
sources  combined  made  it  almost  insupportable.  Through 
such  an  atmosphere,  by  a  steep  dark  shaft  of  dirt  and  poison, 
the  way  lay.  Yielding  to  his  own  disturbance  of  mind,  and 
to  his  young  companion's  agitation,  which  became  greater 
every  instant,  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  twice  stopped  to  rest.  Each 
of  these  stoppages  was  made  at  a  doleful  grating,  by  which 
any  languishing  good  airs  that  were  left  uncorrupted,  seemed 
to  escape,  and  all  spoilt  and  sickly  vapors  seemed  to  crawl 
in.  Through  the  rusted  bars,  tastes,  rather  than  glimpses, 
were  caught  of  the  jumbled  neighborhood ;  and  nothing 
within  range,  nearer  or  lower  than  the  summits  of  the  two 
great  towers  of  Notre-Dame,  had  any  promise  on  it  of  healthy 
life  or  wholesome  aspirations. 

At  last,  the  top  of  the  staircase  was  gained,  and  they 
stopped  for  the  third  time.  There  was  yet  an  upper  staircase,  of 
a  steeper  inclination  and  of  contracted  dimensions,  to  be 
ascended,  before  the  garret  story  was  reached.  The  keeper 
of  the  wine-shop,  always  going  a  little  in  advance,  and  always 
going  on  the  side  which  Mr.  Lorry  took,  as  though  he  dreaded 
to  be  asked  any  question  by  the  young  lady,  turned  himself 
about  here,  and,  carefully  feeling  in  the  pockets  of  the  coat 
be  carried  over  his  shoulder,  took  out  a  key. 


38 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


The  door  is  locked  then,  my  friend  ?  said  Mr.  Lorry, 
surprised. 

Ay.    Yes/'  was  the  grim  reply  of-  Monsieur  Defarge. 

"  You  think  it  necessary  to  keep  the  unfortunate  gentle- 
man so  retired  1  " 

"  I  think  it  necessary  to  turn  the  key."  Monsieur  Defarge 
whispered  it  closer  in  his  ear,  and  frowned  heavily. 

"  Why?" 

Why  !  Because  he  has  lived  so  long,  locked  up,  that  he 
would  be  frightened — rave — tear  himself  to  pieces — die — come 
to  1  know  not  what  harm — if  his  door  was  left  open." 

"  Is  it  possible  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Lorry. 

"  Is  it  possible  !  "  repeated  Defarge,  bitterly.  "  Yes.  And 
a  beautiful  world  we  live  in,  when  it  is  possible,  and  when 
many  other  such  things  are  possible,  and  not  only  possible, 
but  done — done,  see  you  ! — under  that  sky  there,  every  day. 
Long  live  the  Devil.    Let  us  go  on." 

This  dialogue  had  been  held  in  so  very  low  a  whisper,  that 
not  a  word  of  it  had  reached  the  young  lady's  ears.  But,  by 
this  time  she  trembled  under  such  strong  emotion,  and  her 
face  expressed  such  anxiety,  and,  above  all,  such  dread  and 
terror,  that  Mr.  Lorry  felt  it  incumbent  on  him  co  speak  a 
word  or  two  of  reassurance. 

"  Courage,  dear  miss  !  Courage  !  Business  !  The  worst 
will  be  over  in  a  moment ;  it  is  but  passing  the  room-door,  and 
the  worst  is  over.  Then,  all  the  good  you  bring  to  him,  all 
the  relief,  all  the  happiness  you  bring  to  him,  begin.  Let  our 
good  friend  here,  assist  you  on  that  side.  That's  well,  friend 
Defarge.    Come  now.    Business,  business  !  " 

They  went  up  slowly  and  softly.  The  staircase  was  short, 
and  they  were  soon  at  the  top.  There,  as  it  had  an  abrupt 
turn  in  it,  they  came  all  at  once  in  sight  of  three  men,  whose 
heads  were  bent  down  close  together  at  the  side  of  a  door, 
and  who  were  intently  looking  into  the  room  to  which  the  door 
belonged,  through  some  chinks  or  holes  in  the  wall.  On  hear- 
ing footsteps  close  at  hand,  these  three  turned,  and  rose,  and 
showed  themselves  to  be  the  three  of  one  name  who  had  been 
drinking  in  the  wine  shop. 

"  I  forgot  them  in  the  surprise  of  your  visit,"  explained 
Monsieur  Defarge.  "  Leave  us,  good  bovs  ;  we  have  business 
here."  ^ 

The  three  glmed  by,  and  went  silently  down. 

There  appearing  to  be  no  o.ther  door  on  that  floor,  and  the 


THE  WINE-SHOP. 


39 


keeper  of  the  wine-shop  going  straight  to  this  one  when  they 
were  left  alone,  Mr.  Lorry  asked  him  in  a  whisper,  with  a 
little  anger  : 

"  Do  you  make  a  show  of  Monsieur  Manette  ?  " 

"  I  show  him,  in  the  way  you  have  seen,  to  a  chosen  few." 

"  Is  that  well  ? 

"  I  think  it  is  well." 

"  Who  are  the  few  ?    How  do  you  choose  them  ?  " 

"  I  choose  them  as  real  men,  of  my  name — Jacques  is  my 
name — to  whom  the  sight  is  likely  to  do  good.  Enough ;  you 
are  English  ;  that  is  another  thing.  Stay  there,  if  you  please, 
a  little  moment." 

With  an  admonitory  gesture  to  keep  them  back,  he  stooped, 
and  looked  in  through  the  crevice  in  the  wall.  Soon  raising 
his  head  again,  he  struck  twice  or  thrice  upon  the  door — evi- 
dently with  no  other  object  than  to  make  a  noise  there.  With 
the  same  intention,  he  drew  the  key  across  it,  three  or  four 
times,  before  he  put  it  clumsily  into  the  lock,  and  turned  it  as 
heavily  as  he  could. 

The  door  slowly  opened  inward  under  his  hand,  and  he 
looked  into  the  room  and  said  something.  A  faint  voice  an- 
swered something.  Little  more  than  a  single  syllable  could 
have  been  spoken  on  either  side. 

He  looked  back  over  his  shoulder,  and  beckoned  them  to 
enter.  Mr.  Lorry  got  his  arm  securely  round  the  daughter's 
waist,  and  held  her  ;  for  he  felt  that  she  was  sinking. 

"  A — a — a — business,  business  !  "  he  urged,  with  a  moist- 
ure that  was  not  of  business  shining  on  hi-s  cheek.  "  Come 
in,  come  in  !  " 

"  I  am  afraid  of  it,"  she  answered,  shuddering. 

"Of  it?  What?" 

"  I  mean  of  him.    Of  my  father." 

Rendered  in  a  manner  desperate,  by  her  state  and  by  the 
beckoning  of  their  conductor,  he  drew  over  his  neck  the  arm 
that  shook  upon  his  shoulder,  lifted  her  a  little,  and  hurried 
her  into  the  room.  He  set  her  down  just  within  the  door,  and 
held  her,  clinging  to  him. 

Defarge  drew  out  the  key,  closed  the  door,  locked  it  on 
the  inside,  took  out  the  key  again,  and  held  it  in  his  hand. 
All  this  he  did,  methodically,  and  with  as  loud  and  harsh  an 
accompaniment  of  noise  as  he  could  make.  Finally,  he  walked 
across  the  room  with  a  measured  tread  to  where  the  window 
was.    He  stopped  there,  and  faced  round. 


40 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


The  garret,  built  to  be  a  depository  for  firewood  and  the 
like,  was  dim  and  dark  :  for,  the  window  of  dormer  shape, 
was  in  truth  a  door  in  the  roof,  vvith  a  Uttle  crane  over  it  for 
the  hoisting  up  of  stores  from  the  street :  unglazed,  and 
closing  up  the  middle  in  two  pieces,  like  any  other  door  of 
French  construction.  To  exclude  the  cold,  one  half  of  this 
door  was  fast  closed,  and  the  other  was  opened  but  a  very 
little  way.  Such  a  scanty '  portion  of  light  was  admitted 
through  these  means,  that  it  was  difficult,  on  first  coming  in, 
to  see  anything ;  and  long  habit  alone  could  have  slowly 
formed  in  any  one,  the  ability  to  do  any  work  requiring  nicety 
in  such  obscurity.  Yet,  work  of  that  kind  was  being  done  in 
the  garret ;  for,  with  his  back  towards  the  door,  and  his  face 
towards  the  window  where  the  keeper  of  the  wine-shop  stood 
looking  at  him,  a  white-haired  man  sat  on  a  low  bench,  stoop- 
ing forward  and  very  busy,  making  shoes. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  SHOEMAKER.. 

"  Good-day  !  ^'  said  Monsieur  Defarge,  looking  down  at 
the  white  head  that  bent  low  over  the  shoemaking. 

It  was  raised  for  a  moment,  and  a  very  faint  voice  re- 
sponded to  the  salutation,  as  if  it  were  at  a  distance. 

"  Good-day !  " 

"  You  are  still  hard  at  work  I  see  ? 

After  a  long  silence,  the  head  was  lifted  for  another  mo- 
ment, and  the  voice  replied,  *'Yes — I  am  working."  This 
time,  a  pair  of  haggard  eyes  had  looked  at  the  questioner,  be- 
fore the  face  had  dropped  again. 

The  faintness  of  the  voice  was  pitiable  and  dreadful.  It 
was  not  the  faintness  of  physical  weakness,  though  confine- 
ment and  hard  fare  no  doubt  had  their  part  in  it.  Its  de- 
plorable peculiarity  was,  that  it  was  the  faintness  of  solitude 
and  disuse.  It  was  like  the  last  feeble  echo  of  a  sound 
made  long  and  long  ago.  So  entirely  had  it  lost  the  life  and 
resonance  of  the  human  voice,  that  it  affected  the  senses  like 
a  once  beautiful  color  faded  away  into  a  poor  weak  stain.  So 
sunken  and  suppressed  it  was,  that  it  was  like  a  voice  under- 
ground. So  expressive  it  was,  of  a  hopeless  and  lost  creature^ 


THE  SHOEMAKER, 


41 


that  a  famished  traveller,  wearied  out  by  lonely  wandeiing  in  a 
wilderness,  would  have  remembered  home  and  friends  in  such 
a  tone  before  lying  down  to  die. 

-  Some  minutes  of  silent  work  had  passed  ;  and  the  haggard 
eyes  had  looked  up  again  :  not  with  any  interest  or  curiosity, 
but  with  a  dull  mechanical  perception,  beforehand,  that  the 
spot  where  the  only  visitor  they  were  aware  of  had  stood,  was 
not  yet  empty. 

"  I  want,"  said  Defarge,  who  had  not  removed  his  gaze 
from  the  shoemaker,  to  let  in  a  little  more  light  here.  You 
can  bear  a  little  more  ?  " 

The  shoemaker  stopped  his  work ;  looked  with  a  vacant 
air  of  listening,  at  the  floor  on  one  side  of  him  ;  then  similarly 
at  the  floor  on  the  other  side  of  him  ;  then,  upward  at  the 
speaker. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  You  can  bear  a  little  more  light  ?  " 

"  I  must  bear  it,  if  you  let  it  in."  (Laying  the  palest 
shadow  of  a  stress  upon  the  second  word.) 

The  opened  half-door  was  opened  a  little  further,  and  se- 
cured at  that  angle  for  the  time.  A  broad  ray  of  light  fell 
into  the  garret,  and  showed  the  workman  with  an  unfinished 
shoe  upon  his  lap,  pausing  in  his  labor.  His  few  common 
+ools  and  various  scraps  of  leather  were  at  his  feet  and  on 
his  bench.  He  had  a  white  beard,  raggedly  cut,  but  not  very 
long,  a  hollow  face,  and  exceedingly  bright  eyes.  The  hol- 
lowness  and  thinness  of  his  face  would  have  caused  them  to 
look  large,  under  his  yet  dark  eyebrows  and  his  confused 
white  hair,  though  they  had  been  really  otherwise  ;  but,  they 
were  naturally  large,  and  looked  unnaturally  so.  His  yellow 
rags  of  shirt  lay  open  at  the  throat,  and  showed  his  body  to 
be  withered  and  worn.  He,  and  his  old  canvas  frock,  and 
his  loose  stockings,  and  all  his  poor  tatters  of  clothes,  had,  in 
a  long  seclusion  from  direct  light  and  air,  faded  down  to  such 
a  dull  uniformity  of  parchment-yellow,  that  it  would  have 
been  hard  to  say  which  was  which. 

He  had  put  up  a  hand  between  his  eyes  and  the  light,  and 
the  very  bones  of  it  seemed  transparent.  So  he  sat,  with  a 
steadfastly  vacant  gaze,  pausing  in  his  work.  He  never 
looked  at  the  figure  before  him,  without  first  looking  down  on 
this  side  of  himself,  then  on  that,  as  if  he  had  lost  the  habit 
of  associating  place  with  sound  ;  he  never  spoke,  without  first 
wandering  in  this  manner,  and  forgetting  to  speak. 


42 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


"  Are  you  going  to  finish  that  pair  of  shoes  to-day  ?  * 
asked  Defarge,  motioning  to  Mr.  Lorry  to  come  forward. 
"  What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  finish  that  pair  of  shoes  to-day  ?  " 
"  I  can't  say  that  I  mean  to.    I  suppose  so.    I  don't 
know." 

But,  the  question  reminded  him  of  his  work,  and  he  bent 
over  it  again. 

Mr.  Lorry  carne  silently  forward,  leaving  the  daughter  by 
the  door.  When  he  had  stood,  for  a  minute  or  two,  by  the 
side  of  Defarge,  the  shoemaker  looked  up.  He  showed  no 
surprise  at  seeing  another  figure,  but  the  unsteady  fingers  ol 
one  of  his  hands  strayed  to  his  lips  as  he  looked  at  it  (his 
lips  and  his  nails  were  of  the  same  pale  lead-color),  and  then 
the  hand  dropped  to  his  work,  and  he  once  more  bent  over  the 
shoe.    The  look  and  the  action  had  occupied  but  an  instant. 

"  You  have  a  visitor,  you  see,"  said  Monsieur  Defarge. 

"  What  did  you  say  1 " 

"  Here  is  a  visitor." 

The  shoemaker  looked  up  as  before,  but  without  removing 
a  hand  from  his  work, 

"  Come  !  "  said  Defarge.  "  Here  is  Monsieur,  who  knows 
a  well-made  shoe  when  he  sees  one.  Show  him  that  shoe 
you  are  working  at.    Take  it,  monsieur." 

Mr.  Lorry  took  it  in  his  hand. 

"  Tell  Monsieur  what  kind  of  shoe  it  is,  and  the  maker's 
name." 

There  was  a  longer  pause  than  usual,  before  the  shoe- 
maker replied  : 

"I  forget  what  it  was  you  asked  me.  What  did  you 
say  ? " 

"  I  said,  couldn't  you  describe  the  kind  of  shoe,  for  mon- 
sieur's information  1 " 

"  It  is  a  lady's  shoe.  It  is  a  young  lady's  walking-shoe. 
It  Is  in  the  present  mode.  I  never  saw  the  mode.  I  have 
had  a  pattern  in  my  hand."  He  glanced  at  the  shoe  with 
some  little  passing  touch  of  pride. 

"  And  the  maker's  name   "  said  Defarge. 

Now  that  he  had  no  work  to  hold,  he  laid  the  knuckles 
of  the  right  hand  in  the  hollow  of  the  left,  and  then  the 
knuckles  of  the  left  hand  in  the  hollow  of  the  right,  and  then 
passed  a  hand  across  his  bearded  chin,  and  so  on  in  regular 
changes,  without  a  moment's  intermission.   The  task  of  recall 


THE  SHOEMAKER. 


43 


ing  him  from  the  vacancy  into  which  he  always  sank  when  he 
had  spoken,  was  like  recalling  some  very  weak  person  from  a 
swoon,  or  endeavoring,  in  the  hope  of  some  disclosure,  to 
stay  the  spirit  of  a  fast-dying  man/ 

"  Did  you  ask  me  for  my  name  ? 

"Assuredly  I  did." 

"  One  Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower." 
"  Is  that  all  ?  " 

"  One  Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower." 

With  a  weary  sound  that  was  not  a  sigh,  nor  a  groan,  he 
bent  to  work  again,  until  the  silence  was  again  broken. 

"  You  are  not  a  shoemaker  by  trade  ?  "  said  Mr.  Lorry, 
looking  steadfastly  at  him. 

His  haggard  eyes  turned  to  Defarge  as  if  he  would  have 
transferred  the  question  to  him ;  but  as  no  help  came  from, 
that  quarter,  they  turned  back  on  the  questioner  when  they 
had  sought  the  ground. 

"  I  am  not  a  shoemaker  by  trade  ?  No,  I  was  not  a  shoe- 
maker by  trade.  I — I  learnt  it  here.  I  taught  myself.  I 
asked  leave  to  " 

He  lapsed  away,  even  for  minutes,  ringing  those  meas- 
ured changes  on  his  hands  the  whole  time.  His  eyes  came 
slowly  back,  at  last,  to  the  face  from  which  they  had  wan- 
dered ;  when  they  rested  on  it,  he  started,  and  resumed,  in 
the  manner  of  a  sleeper  that  moment  awake,  reverting  to  a 
tubject  of  last  night. 

"  I  asked  leave  to  teach  myself,  and  I  got  it  with  much 
difficulty  after  a  long  while,  and  I  have  made  shoes  ever 
gince.'* 

As  he  held  out  his  hand  for  the  shoe  that  had  been  taken 
{rom  him,  Mr.  Lorry  said,  still  looking  steadfastly  in  his 
/ace: 

"  Monsieur  Manette,  do  you  remember  nothing  of  me  ?  " 

The  shoe  dropped  to  the  ground,  and  he  sat  looking  fix- 
edly  at  the  questioner. 

"  Monsieur  Manette  ;  "  Mr.  Lorry  laid  his  hand  upon 
Defarge's  arm  ;  do  you  remember  nothing  of  this  man  ^. 
Look  at  him.  Look  at  me.  Is  there  no  old  banker,  no  old 
business,  no  old  servant,  no  old  time,  rising  in  your  mind. 
Monsieur  Manette  t " 

As  the  captive  of  many  years  sat  looking  fixedly,  by  turns, 
at  Mr.  Lorry  and  at  Defarge,  some  long  obliterated  marks  of 
an  actively  intent  intelligence  in  the  middle  of  the  forehead, 


44 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


gradually  forced  themselves  through  the  black  mist  that  had 
fallen  on  him.  They  were  overclouded  again,  they  were 
fainter,  they  were  gone  ;  but  they  had  been  there.  And  so 
exactly  was  the  expression  repeated  on  the  fair  young  face  of 
her  who  had  crept  along  the  wall  to  a  point  where  she  could 
see  him,  and  where  she  now  stood  looking  at  him,  with  hands 
which  at  first  had  been  only  raised  in  frightened  compassion, 
if  not  even  to  keep  him  off  and  shut  out  the  sight  of  him,  but 
which  were  now  extending  towards  him,  trembling  with  eager- 
ness to  lay-  the  spectral  face  upon  her  warm  young  breast, 
and  love  it  back  to  life  and  hope — so  exactly  was  the  ex- 
pression repeated  (though  in  stronger  characters)  on  her  fair 
young  face,  that  it  looked  as  though  it  had  passed  like  a  mov* 
ing  light,  from  him  to  her. 

Darkness  had  fallen  on  him  in  its  place.  He  looked  at 
the  two,  less  and  less  attentively,  and  his  eyes  in  gloomy  ab- 
straction sought  the  ground  and  looked  about  him  in  the  old 
way.  Finally,  with  a  deep  long  sigh,  he  took  the  shoe  up, 
and  resumed  his  work. 

"  Have  you  recognized  him,  monsieur  ?  asked  Defarge 
in  a  whisper. 

"Yes;  for  a  moment.  At  first  I  thought  it  quite  hope- 
less, but  I  have  unquestionably  seen,  for  a  single  moment,  the 
face  that  I  once  knew  so  well.  Hush  !  Let  us  draw  further 
back.    Hush  1 

She  had  moved  from  the  wall  of  the  garret,  very  near  to 
the  bench  on  which  he  sat.  There  was  something  awful  in 
his  unconsciousness  of  the  figure  that  could  have  put  out  its 
hand  and  touched  him  as  he  stooped  over  his  labor. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken,  not  a  sound  was  made.  She 
stood,  like  a  spirit,  beside  him,  and  he  bent  over  his  work. 

It  happened,  at  length,  that  he  had  occasion  to  change 
the  instrument  in  his  hand,  for  his  shoemaker's  knife.  It  lay 
on  that  side  of  him  which  was  not  the  side  on  which  she 
stood.  He  had  taken  it  up,  and  was  stooping  to  work  again, 
when  his  eyes  caught  the  skirt  of  her  dress.  He  raised  them, 
and  saw  her  face.  The  two  spectators  started  forward,  but 
she  stayed  them  with  a  motion  of  her  hand.  She  had  no  fear 
of  his  striking  at  her  with  the  knife,  though  they  had. 

He  stared  at  her  with  a  fearful  look,  and  after  a  while  his 
lips  began  to  form  some  words,  though  no  sound  proceeded 
from  them.  By  degrees,  in  the  pauses  of  his  quick  and  la' 
bored  breathing,  he  was  heard  to  say  : 


THE  SHOEMAKER. 


45 


"  What  is  this  ? 

With  the  tears  streaming  down  her  face,  she  put  her  two 
hands  to  her  Hps,  and  kissed  them  to  him  ;  then  clasped  them 
on  her  breast,  as  if  she  laid  his  ruined  head  there. 

"  You  are  not  the  gaoler's  daughter  ? 

She  sighed  No." 

"  Who  are  you  ?  " 

Not  yet  trusting  the  tones  of  her  voice,  she  sat  down  on 
the  bench  beside  him.    He  recoiled,  but  she  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  arm.    A  strange  thrill  struck  him  when  she  did  so,  * 
and  visibly  passed  over  his  frame  j  he  laid  the  knife  dovi^n 
softly,  as  he  sat  staring  at  ber. 

Her  golden  hair,  which  she  wore  in  long  curls,  had  been 
hurriedly  pushed  aside,  and  fell  down  over  her  neck.  Ad- 
vancing his  hand  by  little  and  little,  he  took  it  up  and  looked 
at  it.  In  the  midst  of  the  action  he  went  astray,  and,  with 
another  deep  sigh,  fell  to  work  at  his  shoemaking. 

But  not  for  long.  Releasing  his  arm,  she  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  shoulder.  After  looking  doubtfully  at  it,  two  or 
three  times,  as  if  to  be  sure  that  it  was  really  there,  he  laid 
down  his  work,  put  his  hand  to  his  neck,  and  took  off  a  black- 
ened string  with  a  scrap  of  folded  rag  attached  to  it.  He 
opened  this,  carefully,  on  his  knee,  and  it  contained  a  very 
little  quantity  of  hair  :  not  more  than  one  or  two  long  golden 
hairs,  which  he  had,  in  some  old  day,  wound  off  upon  his 
finger. 

He  took  her  hair  into  his  hand  again,  and  looked  closely 
at  it.  "  It  is  the  same.  How  can  it  be !  When  was  it !  How 
was  it ! 

As  the  concentrating  expression  returned  to  his  forehead, 
he  seemed  to  become  conscious  that  it  was  in  hers  too.  He 
turned  her  full  to  the  light,  and  looked  at  her. 

"  She  had  jaid  her  head  upon  my  shoulder,  that  night 
when  I  was  summoned  out — she  had  a  fear  of  my  going, 
though  I  had  none — and  v/hen  I  was  brought  to  the  North 
Tower,  they  found  these  upon  my  sleeve.  ^  You  will  leave 
me  them  ?  They  can  never  help  me  to  escape  in  the  body, 
though  they  may  in  the  spirit.'  Those  were  the  words  I  said. 
I  remember  them  very  well." 

He  formed  this  speech  with  his  lips  many  times  before  he 
could  utter  it.  But  when  he  did  find  spoken  words  for  it, 
they  came  to  him  coherently,  though  slowly, 

"  Hqw  was  this  ? —  Was  it  you  ?  " 


46 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Once  more,  the  two  spectators  started,  as  he  turned  upon 
her  with  a  frightful  suddenness.  But  she  sat  perfectly  still 
in  his  grasp,  and  only  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  entreat  you, 
good  gentlemen,  do  not  come  near  us,  do  not  speak,  do  not 
move ! " 

"  Hark  !  "  he  exclaimed.    "  Whose  voice  was  that  ?  " 

His  hands  released  her  as  he  uttered  this  cry,  and  wenf 
up  to  his  white  hair,  which  they  tore  in  a  frenzy.  It  died  out, 
as  everything  but  his  shoemaking  did  die  out  of  him,  and  he 
refolded  his  little  packet  and  tried  to  secure  it  in  his  breast  j 
but  he  still  looked  at  her,  and  gloomily  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  no,  no  ;  you  are  too  young,  too  blooming.  It  can't 
be.  See  what  the  prisoner  is.  These  are  not  the  hands  she 
knew,  this  is  not  the  face  she  knew,  this  is  not  a  voice  she 
ever  heard.  No,  no.  She  was — and  He  was — before  the 
slow  years  of  the  North  Tower — ages  ago.  What  is  your 
name,  my  gentle  angel  ? 

Hailing  his  softened  tone  and  manner,  his  daughter  fell 
Upon  her  knees  before  him,  with  her  appealing  hands  upon 
his  breast. 

"  O,  sir,  at  another  time  you  shall  know  my  namfe,  and 
who  my  mother  was,  and  who  my  father,  and  how  I  never 
knew  their  hard,  hard  history.  But  I  cannot  tell  you  at  this 
time,  and  I  cannot  tell  you  here.  All  that  I  may  tell  you, 
here  and  now,  is,  that  I  pray  to  you  to  touch  me  and  to  bless 
me.    Kiss  me,  kiss  me  !    O  my  dear,  my  dear!  " 

His  cold  white  head  mingled  with  her  radiant  hair,  which 
warmed  and  lighted  it  as  though  it  were  the  light  of  Freedom 
shining  on  him. 

"  If  you  hear  in  my  voice — I  don't  know  that  it  is  so,  but 
I  hope  it  is — if  you  hear  in  my  voice  any  resemblance  to  a 
voice  that  once  was  sweet  music  in  your  ears,  weep  for  it, 
weep  for  it !  If  you  touch,  in  touching  my  hair,  anything  that 
recalls  a  beloved  head  that  lay  on  your  breast  when  you  were 
young  and  free,  weep  for  it,  weep  for  it !  If,  when  I  hint  to 
you  of  a  Home  that  is  before  us,  where  I  will  be  true  to  you 
with  all  my  duty  and  with  all  my  faithful  service,  I  bring  back 
the  remembrance  of  a  Home  long  desolate,  while  your  pool 
heart  pined  away,  weep  for  it,  weep  for  it !  " 

She  held  him  closer  round  the  neck,  and  rocked  him  on 
her  breast  like  a  child. 

"  If,  when  I  tell  you,  dearest  dear,  that  your  agony  is  over, 
and  that  I  have  come  here  to  take  you  from  it,  and  that  we 


THE  SHOEMAKER. 


47 


go  to  England  to  be  at  peace  and  at  rest,  I  cause  you  to  think 
of  your  useful  life  laid  waste,  and  of  our  native  France  so 
wicked  to  you,  weep  for  it,  weep  for  it !  And  if,  when  I  shall 
tell  you  of  my  name,  and  of  my  father  who  is  living,  and  of 
my  mother  who  is  dead,  you  learn  that  I  have  to  kneel  to  my 
honored  father,  and  implore  his  pardon  for  having  never  for 
his  sake  striven  all  day  and  lain  awake  and  wept  all  night,  be- 
cause the  love  of  my  poor  mother  hid  his  torture  from  me, 
weep  for  it,  w^eep  for  it !  Weep  for  her,  then,  and  for  me ! 
Good  gentlemen,  thank  God  !  I  feel  his  sacred  tears  upon 
my  face,  and  his  sobs  strike  against  my  heart.  O,  see  ! 
Thank  God  for  us,  thank  God  ! 

He  had  sunk  in  her  arms,  and  his  face  dropped  on  her 
breast :  a  sight  so  touching,  yet  so  terrible  in  the  tremendous 
wrong  and  suffering  which  had  gone  before  it,  that  the  two 
beholders  covered  their  faces. 

When  the  quiet  of  the  garret  had  been  long  undisturbed, 
and  his  heavdng  breast  and  shaken  form  had  long  yielded  to 
the  calm  that  must  follow  all  storms — emblem  to  humanity, 
of  the  rest  and  silence  into  which  the  storm  called  Life  must 
hush  at  last — they  came  forward  to  raise  the  father  and  daugh- 
ter from  the  ground.  He  had  gradually  dropped  to  the  floor, 
and  lay  there  in  a  lethargy,  worn  out.  She  had  nestled  down 
with  him,  that  his  head  might  lie  upon  her  arm  ;  and  her  hair 
drooping  over  him  curtained  him  from  the  light. 

"  If  without  disturbing  him,"  she  said,  raising  her  hand  to 
Mr.  Lorry  as  he  stooped  over  them,  after  repeated  blowings 
of  his  nose,  "  all  could  be  arranged  for  our  leaving  Paris  at 
once,  so  that,  from  the  very  door,  he  could  be  taken  away — " 

"  But,  consider.  Is  he  fit  for  the  journey  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Lorry. 

"  More  fit  for  that,  I  think,  than  to  remain  in  this  city,  so 
dreadful  to  him." 

"It  is  true,"  said  Defarge,  who  was  kneeling  to  look  on 
and  hear.  "  More  than  that ;  Monsieur  Manette  is,  for  all 
reasons,  best  out  of  France.  Say,  shall  I  hire  a  carriage  and 
post-horses  ?  " 

"  That's  business,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  resuming  on  the 
shortest  notice  his  methodical  manners  ;  and  if  business  is 
to  be  done,  I  had  better  do  it." 

"Then  be  so  kind,"  urged  Miss  Manette,  "as  to  leave  us 
here.  You  see  how  composed  he  has  become,  and  you  cannot 
be  afra,id  to  leave  him  with  me  now.  Why  should  you  be  ? 
8 


48 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


If  you  will  lock  the  door  to  secure  us  from  interruption,  I  do 
not  doubt  that  you  will  find  him,  when  you  come  back,  as  quiet 
as  you  leave  him.  In  any  case  I  will  take  care  of  him  until 
you  return,  and  then  we  will  remove  him  straight." 

Bolih  Mr.  Lorry  and  Defarge  were  rather  disinclined  to 
this  course,  and  in  favor  of  one  of  them  remaining.  But,  as 
there  were  not  only  carriage  and  horses  to  be  seen  to,  but 
travelling  papers ;  and  as  time  pressed,  for  the  day  was 
drawing  to  an  end,  it  came  at  last  to  their  hastily  dividing 
the  business  that  was  necessary  to  be  done,  and  hurrying 
away  to  do  it. 

Then,  as  the  darkness  closed  in,  the  daughter  laid  her 
head  down  on  the  hard  ground  close  at  the  father's  side, 
and  watched  him.  The  darkness  deepened  and  deepened, 
and  they  both  lay  quiet,  until  a  light  gleamed  through  the 
chinks  in  the  wall. 

Mr.  Lorry  and  Monsieur  Defarge  had  made  all  ready  for 
the  journey,  and  had  brought  with  them,  besides  travelling 
cloaks  and  wrappers,  bread  and  meat,  wine,  and  hot  coffee. 
Monsieur  Defarge  put  this  provender,  and  the  lamp  he  carried, 
on  the  shoemaker's  bench  (there  was  nothing  else  in  the  garret 
but  a  pallet  bed),  and  he  and  Mr.  Lorry  roused  the  captive, 
and  assisted  him  to  his  feet. 

No  human  intelligence  could  have  read  the  mysteries  of 
his  mind,  in  the  scared  blank  wonder  of  his  face.  Whether 
he  knew  what  had  happened,  whether  he  recollected  what  they 
had  said  to  him,  whether  he  knew  that  he  was  free,  were 
questions  which  no  sagacity  could  have  solved.  They  tried 
speaking  to  him  ;  but,  he  was  so  confused,  and  so  very  slow 
to  answer,  that  they  took  fright  at  his  bewilderment,  and 
agreed  for  the  time  to  tamper  with  him  no  more.  He  had  a 
wild,  lost  manner  of  occasionally  clasping  his  head  in  his 
hands,  that  had  not  been  seen  in  him  before ;  yet,  he  had 
some  pleasure  in  the  mere  sound  of  his  daughter's  voice,  and 
invariably  turned  to  it  when  she  spoke. 

In  the  submissive  way  of  one  long  accustomed  to  obey 
under  coercion,  he  ate  and  drank  what  they  gave  him  to  eat 
and  drink,  and  put  on  the  cloak  and  other  wrappings,  that 
they  gave  him  to  wear.  He  readily  responded  to  his  daugh 
ter's  drawing  her  arm  through  his,  and  took — and  kept — hei 
hand  in  both  his  own. 

They  began  to  descend  ;  Monsieur  Defarge  going  first 
with  the  lamp,  Mr.  Lorry  closing  the  little  procession.  The^ 


THE  SHOEMAKEI^ 


49 


had  not  traversed  many  steps  of  the  long  main  staircase 
when  he  .stopped,  and  stared  at  the  roof  and  round  at  the 
walls. 

^'  You  remember  the  place,  my  father  ?    You  remember 
coming  up  here  ? 
,      What  did  you  say  ?  " 

But,  before  she  could  repeat  the  question,  he  murmured 
an  answer  as  if  she  had  repeated  it. 

"  Remember  ?  No,  I  don't  remember.  It  was  so  very 
iong  ago." 

That  he  had  no  recollection  whatever  of  his  having  been 
brought  from  his  prison  to  that  house,  was  apparent  to  them. 
They  heard  him  mutter,  One  Hundred  and  Five,  North 
Tower;"  and  when  he  looked  about  him,  it  evidently  was  foi 
the  strong  fortress-walls  which  had  long  encompassed  him. 
On  their  reaching  the  court-yard  he  instinctively  altered  his 
tread,  as  being  in  expectation  of  a  drawbridge ;  and  when 
there  was  no  drawbridge,  and  he  saw  the  carriage  walking  in 
the  open  street,  he  dropped  his  daughter's  hand  and  clasped 
his  head  again. 

No  crowd  was  about  the  door  :  no  people  were  discernible 
at  any  of  the  many  windows;  not  even  a  chance  passer-by 
was  in  the  street.  An  unnatural  silence  and  desertion  reigned 
there.  Only  one  soul  was  to  be  seen,  and  that  was  Madame 
Defarge — who  leaned  against  the  door-post,  knitting,  and  saw 
nothing. 

The  prisoner  had  got  into  a  coach,  and  his  daughter  had 
followed  him,  when  Mr.  Lorry's  feet  were  arrested  on  the 
step  by  his  asking,  miserably,  for  his  shoemaking  tools  and 
the  unfinished  shoes.  Madame  Defarge  immediately  called 
to  her  husband  that  she  would  get  them,  and  went,  knitting, 
out  of  the  lamplight,  through  the  court-yard.  She  quickly 
brought  them  down  and  handed  them  in  ; — and  immediately 
afterwards  leaned  against  the  door-post,  knitting,  and  saw 
nothing. 

Defarge  got  upon  the  box,  and  gave  the  word  "  To  the 
Barrier  !  "  The  postilion  cracked  his  whip,  and  they  clattered 
away  under  the  feeble  over-swinging  lamps. 

Under  the  over-swinging  lamps — swinging  ever  brighter  in 
the  better  streets,  and  ever  dimmer  in  the  worse — and  by 
lighted  shops,  gay  crowds,  illuminated  coffee-houses,  and 
theatre-doors,  to  one  of  the  city  gates.  Soldiers  with  lanterns, 
at  the  guard-house  there.    "  Your  papers,  travellers  !  "  See 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


here  then,  Monsieur  the  Officer,"  said  Defarge,  getting  down, 
and  taking  him  gravely  apart,  "these  are  the  papers  of 
monsieur  inside,  with  the  white  head.    They  were  consigned 

to  me,  with  him,  at  the  He  dropped  his  voice,  there 

was  a  flutter  among  the  mihtary  lanterns,  and  one  of  them 
being  handed  into  the  coach  by  an  arm  in*uniform,  the  eyes 
connected  with  the  arm  looked,  not  an  every  day  or  an  every 
night  look,  at  monsieur  with  the  white  head.  "  It  is  well. 
Forward  !  "  from  the  uniform.  "  Adieu  !  "  from  Defarge. 
And  so,  under  a  short  grove  of  feebler  and  feebler  over- 
swinging  lamps,  out  under  the  great  grove  of  stars. 

Beneath  that  arch  of  unmoved  and  eternal  lights ;  some, 
50  remote  from  this  little  earth  that  the  learned  tell  us  it  is 
doubtful  whether  their  rays  have  even  yet  discovered  it,  as  a 
point  in  space  where  anything  is  suffered  or  done :  the 
shadows  of  the  night  were  broad  and  black.  All  through  the 
cold  and  restless  interval,  until  dawn,  they  once  more  whis- 
pered in  the  ears  of  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry — sitting  opposite  the 
buried  man  who  had  been  dug  out,  and  wondering  what  sub- 
tle powers  were  for  ever  lost  to  hiin,  and  what  were  capable 
of  restoration — the  old  inquiry : 

"  I  hope  you  caxe  to  be  recalled  to  life  ? 

And  the  old  answer ; 
can't  say/' 


• 


FIVE  YEARS  LATER. 


5» 


BOOK  THE  SECOND.  THE  GOLDEN  THREAD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FIVE    YEARS  LATER. 

Tellson's  Bank  by  Temple  Bar  was  an  old-fashioned 
place,  even  in  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
eighty.  It  was  very  small,  very  dark,  very  ugly,  very  inconv 
modious.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  place,  moreover,  in  the 
moral  attribute  that  the  partners  in  the  House  were  proud  of 
its  smallness,  proud  of  its  darkness,  proud  of  its  ugliness, 
proud  of  its  incommodiousness.  They  were  even  boastful  of  its 
eminence  in  those  particulars,  and  were  fired  by  an  express 
conviction  that,  if  it  were  less  objectionable,  it  would  be  less 
respectable.  This  was  no  passive  belief,  but  an  active  weapon 
which  they  flashed  at  more  convenient  places  of  business. 
Tellson's  (they  said)  wanted  no  elbow-room,  Tellson's  wanted 
no  light,  Tellson's  wanted  no  embellishment.  Noakes  and 
Co.'s  might,  or  Snooks  Brothers'  might ;  but  Tellson's,  thank 
Heaven ! — 

Any  one  of  these  partners  would  have  disinherited  his 
son  on  the  question  of  rebuilding  Tellson's.  In  this  respect 
the  House  was  much  on  a  par  with  the  Country ;  which  did 
very  often  disinherit  its  sons  for  suggesting  improvements  in 
laws  and  customs  that  had  long  been  highly  objectionable, 
but  were  only  the  more  respectable. 

Thus  it  had  come  to  pass,  that  Tellson's  was  the  triumph- 
ant perfection  of  inconvenience.  After  bursting  open  a  door 
of  idiotic  obstinacy  with  a  weak  rattle  in  its  throat,  you  fell 
into  Tellson's  down  two  steps,  and  came  to  your  senses  in  a 
miserable  little  shop,  with  two  little  counters,  where  the  oldest 
of  men  made  your  check  shake  as  if  the  wind  rustled  it. 


5^ 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


while  they  examined  the  signature  by  the  dingiest  of  windows, 
which  were  always  under  a  shower-bath  of  mud  from  Fleet 
street,  and  which  were  made  the  dingier  by  their  own  iron 
bars  proper  and  the  heavy  shadow  of  Temple  Bar.  If  your 
business  necessitated  your  seeing  "  the  House,"  you  were  put 
into  a  species  of  Condemned  Hold  at  the  back,  where  you 
meditated  on  a  misspent  life,  until  the  House  came  with  its 
hands  in  its  pockets,  and  you  could  hardly  blink  at  it  in  the 
dismal  twilight.  Your  money  came  out  of,  or  went  into, 
wormy  old  wooden  drawers,  particles  of  which  flew  up  your 
nose  and  down  your  throat  when  they  were  opened  and  shut. 
Your  bank-notes  had  a  mnc',y  odor,  as  if  they  were  fast  de- 
composing into  rags  again.  Your  plate  was  stowed  away 
among  the  neighboring  cesspools,  and  evil  communications 
corrupted  its  good  polish  in  a  day  or  two.  Your  deeds  got 
into  extemporized  strong-rooms  made  of  kitchens  and  scul- 
leries, and  fretted  all  the  fat  out  of  their  parchments  into  the 
banking-house  air.  Your  lighter  boxes  of  family  papers  went 
up  stairs  into  a  Barcemide  room,  that  always  had  a  great  din- 
ing-table  in  it  and  never  had  a  dinner,  and  where,  even  in  the 
year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighty,  the  first  letters 
written  to  you  by  your  old  love,  or  by  your  little  children, 
were  but  newly  released  from  the  horror  of  being  ogled 
through  the  windows,  by  the  heads  exposed  on  Temple  Bar 
with  an  insensate  brutality  and  ferocity  worthy  of  Abyssinia 
or  Ashantee. 

But  indeed,  at  that  time,  putting  to  death  was  a  recipe 
much  in  vogue  with  all  trade  and  professions,  and  not  least  of 
all  with  Tellson's.  Death  is  Nature's  remedy  for  all  things, 
and  why  not  Legislation's  \  Accordingly,  the  forger  was  put 
to  Death  ;  the  utterer  of  a  bad  note  was  put  to  Death  j 
the  unlawful  opener  of  a  letter  was  put  to  Death ;  the  pur- 
loiner  of  forty  shillings  and  sixpence  was  put  to  Death  ; 
the  holder  of  a  horse  at  Tellson's  door,  who  made  off 
with  it,  was  put  to  Death  ;  the  coiner  of  a  bad  shilling  was 
put  to  Death  ;  the  sounders  of  three-fourths  of  the  notes 
in  the  whole  gamut  of  Crime,  were  put  to  Death.  Not 
that  it  did  the  least  good  in  the  way  of  prevention — it  might 
almost  have  been  worth  remarking  that  the  fact  was  exactly 
the  reverse — but,  it  cleared  off  (as  to  this  world)  the  trouble 
of  each  particular  case,  and  left  nothing  else  connected  with 
it  to  be  looked  after.  Thus,  Tellson's,  in  its  day,  like  greater 
places  of  business,  its  contemporaries,  had  taken  so  many 


FIVE  YEARS  AFTER. 


53 


lives,  that,  if  the  heads  laid  low  before  it  had  been  ranged  on 
Temple  Bar  instead  of  being  privately  disposed  of,  they 
would  probably  have  excluded  what  little  light  the  ground 
floor  had,  in  a  rather  significant  manner. 

Cramped  in  all  kinds  of  dim  cupboards  and  hutches  at 
Tellson's,  the  oldest  of  men  carried  on  the  business  gravely. 
When  they  took  a  young  man  into  Tellson's  London  house, 
they  hid  him  somewhere  till  he  was  old.  They  kept  him  in  a 
dark  place,  like  a  cheese,  until  he  had  the  full  Tellson  flavor 
and  blue-mould  upon  him.  Then  only  was  he  permitted  to  be 
seen,  spectacularly  poring  over  large  books,  and  casting  his 
breeches  and  gaiters  into  the  general  weight  of  the  establish- 
ment. 

Outside  Tellson's — never  by  any  means  in  it,  unless  called 
in — was  an  odd-job  man,  an  occasional  porter  and  messenger, 
who  served  as  the  live  sign  of  the  house.  He  was  never 
absent  during  business  hours,  unless  upon  an  errand,  and 
then  he  was  represented  by  his  son  ;  a  grisly  urchin  of  twelve, 
who  was  his  express  image.  People  understood  that  Tell- 
son's, in  a  stately  way,  tolerated  the  odd-job-man.  The  house 
had  always  tolerated  some  person  in  that  capacity,  and  time 
and  tide  had  drifted  this  person  to  the  post.  His  surname 
was  Cruncher,  and  on  the  youthful  occasion  of  his  renouncing 
by  proxy  the  works  of  darkness,  in  the  easterly  parish  church 
of  Hounsditch,  he  had  received  the  added  appellation  of  Jerry. 

The  scene  was  Mr.  Cruncher's  private  lodging  in  Hang- 
ing-sword-alley, Whitefriars  :  the  time,  half-past  seven  of  the 
clock  on  a  windy  March  morning.  Anno  Domini  seventeen 
hundred  and  eighty.  (JV;  .  Cruncher  himself  always  spoke  of 
the  year  of  our  Lord  as  Anna  Dominoes  :  apparently  under 
the  impression  that  the  Christian  era  dated  from  the  inven- 
tion of  a  popular  game,  by  a  lady  who  had  bestowed  her  name 
upon  it.) 

Mr.  Cruncher's  apartments  were  not  in  a  savory  neighbor- 
hood, and  were  but  two  in  number,  even  if  a  closet  with  a 
single  pane  of  glass  in  it  might  be  counted  as  one.  But  they 
were  very  decently  kept.  Early  as  it  was,  on  the  windy  March 
morning,  the  room  in  which  he  lay  a-bed  was  already  scrubbed 
throughout ;  and  between  the  cups  and  saucers  arranged  for 
breakfast,  and  the  lumbering  deal  table,  a  very  clean  white 
cloth  was  spread. 

Mr.  Cruncher  reposed  under  a  patchwork  counterpane, 
like  a  Harlequin  at  home.    At  first,  he  slept  heavily,  but,  by 


54 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


degrees,  began  to  roll  and  surge  in  bed,  until  he  rose  above 
the  surface,  with  his  spiky  hair  looking  as  if  it  must  tear  the 
sheets  to  ribbons.  At  which  juncture,  he  exclaimed,  in  a 
voice  of  dire  exasperation  : 

"  Bust  me,  if  she  ain't  at  it  agin  !  " 

A  woman  of  orderly  and  industrious  appearance  rose  from 
her  knees  in  a  corner,  with  sufficient  haste  and  trepidation  to 
show  that  she  was  the  person  referred  to. 

**What!"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  looking  out  of  bed  for  a 
boot.    "  You're  at  it  agin,  are  you  }  " 

After  hailing  the  morn  with  this  second  salutation,  he  threw 
a  boot  at  the  woman  as  a  third.  It  was  a  very  muddy  boot, 
and  may  introduce  the  odd  circumstance  connected  with  Mr. 
Cruncher's  domestic  economy,  that,  whereas  he  often  came 
home  after  banking  hours  with  clean  boots,  he  often  got  up 
next  morning  to  find  the  same  boots  covered  with  clay. 

"What,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  varying  his  apostrophe  after 
missing  his  mark — "  what  are  you  up  to,  Aggerawayter  ? 

"  I  was  only  saying  my  prayers." 

"  Saying  your  prayers  !  You're  a  nice  woman  !  What  do 
you  mean  by  flopping  yourself  down  and  praying  agin  me  1 " 

"  I  was  not  praying  against  you  ;  I  was  praying  for  you." 

"You  weren't.  And  if  you  were,  I  won't  be  took  the 
liberty  with.  Here !  your  mother's  a  nice  woman,  young 
Jerry,  going  a  praying  agin  your  father's  prosperity.  You've 
got  a  dutiful  mother,  you  have,  my  son.  You've  got  a  relig- 
ious mother,  you  have,  my  boy :  going  and  flopping  herself 
down,  and  praying  that  the  bread-and-butter  may  be  snatched 
out  of  the  mouth  of  her  only  child." 

Master  Cruncher  (who  was  in  his  shirt)  took  this  very  ill, 
and,  turning  to  his  mother,  strongly  deprecated  any  praying 
away  of  his  personal  board. 

"  And  what  do  you  suppose,  you  conceited  female,"  said 
Mr.  Cruncher,  with  unconscious  inconsistency,  "  that  the 
worth  of  your  prayers  may  be  Name  the  price  that  you  put 
your  prayers  at !  " 

"  They  only  come  from  the  heart,  Jerry.  They  are  worth 
no  more  than  that." 

"Worth  no  more  than  that,"  repeated  Mr.  Cruncher 
"  They  ain't  worth  much  then.  Whether  or  no,  I  won't  be 
prayed  agin,  I  tell  you.  I  can't  afford  it.  I'm  not  a  going  to 
be  made  unlucky  by  your  sneaking.  If  you  must  go  flopping 
yourself  down,  flop  in  favor  of  your  husband  and  child,  and 


FIVE  YEARS  AFTER. 


ss 


not  in  opposition  to  'em.  If  I  had  had  any  but  a  unnat'ral 
wife,  and  this  poor  boy  had  had  any  but  a  unnat'ral  mother,  1 
might  have  m^de  some  money  last  week  instead  oi  being  coun- 
terprayed  and  countermined  and  religiously  circumwented  into 
the  worst  of  luck.  B-u-u-ust  me  !  "  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  who 
all  this  time  had  been  putting  on  his  clothes,  if  I  ain't,  what 
with  piety  and  one  blowed  thing  and  another,  been  choused  this 
last  week  into  as  bad  luck  as  ever  a  poor  devil  of  a  honest 
tradesman  met  with  !  Young  Jerry,  dress  yourself,  my  boy,  and 
while  I  clean  my  boots  keep  a  eye  upon  your  mother  now  and 
then,  and  if  you  see  any  signs  of  more  flopping  give  me  a  call. 
For  I  tell  you,"  here  he  addressed  his  wife  once  more,  I 
won't  be  gone  agin,  in  this  manner.  I  am  as  rickety  as  a 
hackney-coach,  I'm  as  sleepy  as  laudanum,  my  lines  is  strained 
to  that  degree  that  I  shouldn't  know,  if  it  wasn't  for  the  pain 
in  'em,  which  was  me  and  which  somebody  else,  yet  I'm  none 
the  better  for  it  in  pocket ;  and  it's  my  suspicion  that  you've 
been  at  it  from  morning  to  night  to  prevent  me  from  being 
the  better  for  it  in  pocket,  and  I  won't  put  up  with  it,  Aggera- 
wayter,  and  what  do  you  say  now  !  " 

Growling,  in  addition,  such  phrases  as  Ah  !  yes !  You're 
religious,  too.  You  wouldn't  put  yourself  in  opposition  to  the 
interests  of  your  husband  and  child,  would  you  ?  Not  you  !" 
and  throwing  off  other  sarcastic  sparks  from  the  whirling 
grindstone  of  his  indignation,  Mr.  Cruncher  betook  himself  to 
his  boot-cleaning  and  his  general  preparations  for  business. 
In  the  meantime,  his  son,  whose  head  was  garnished  with 
tenderer  spikes,  and  whose  young  eyes  stood  close  by  one 
another,  as  his  father's  did,  kept  the  required  watch  upon  his 
mother.  He  greatly  disturbed  that  poor  woman  at  intervals, 
by  darting  out  of  his  sleeping  closet,  where  he  made  his  toilet, 
with  a  suppressed  cry  of  You  are  going  to  flop  mother. — 
Holloa,  father  !  "  and,  after  raising  this  fictitious  alarm,  dart- 
ing in  again  with  an  undutiful  grin. 

Mr.  Cruncher's  temper  was  not  at  all  improved  when  he 
came  to  his  breakfast.  He  resented  Mrs.  Cruncher's  saying 
grace  with  particular  animosity. 

"  Now,  Aggerawayter  !  What  are  you  up  to  ?   At  it  agin  ? " 

His  wife  explained  that  she  had  merely  asked  a  blessing." 
Don't  do  it !  "  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  looking  about,  as  if 
Ae  rather  expected  to  see  the  loaf  disappear  under  the  efficacy 
of  his  wife's  petitions.  I  ain't  a  going  to  be  blest  out  of 
house  and  home.  I  won't  have  ogr  wittles  blest  off  my  table. 
Keep  still ! 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


Exceedingly  red-eyed  and  grim,  as  if  he  had  been  up  all 
night  at  a  party  which  had  taken  anything  but  a  convivial 
turn,  Jerry  Cruncher  w^orried  his  breakfast  ratli^r  than  ate  it, 
growling  over  it  like  any  four-footed  inmate  of  a  menagerie. 
Towards  nine  o'clock  he  smoothed  his  ruffled  aspect,  and, 
presenting  as  respectable  and  business-like  an  exterior  as  he 
could  overlay  his  natural  self  with,  issued  forth  to  the  occupa- 
tion of  the  day. 

It  could  scarcely  be  called  a  trade,  in  spite  of  his  favorite 
description  of  himself  as  "  a  honest  tradesman.''  His  stock 
consisted  of  a  wooden  stool,  made  out  of  a  broken-backed 
chair  cut  down,  which  stool,  young  Jerry,  walking  at  his  father's 
side,  carried  every  morning  to  beneath  the  banking-house 
window  that  was  nearest  Temple  Bar :  where,  with  the  addi- 
tion of  the  first  handful  of  straw  that  could  be  gleaned  from 
any  passing  vehicle  to  keep  the  cold  and  wet  from  the  odd- 
job-man's  feet,  it  formed  the  encampment  for  the  day.  On 
this  post  of  his,  Mr.  Cruncher  was  as  well  known  to  Fleet 
street  and  the  Temple,  as  the  Bar  itself, — and  was  almost  as 
ill-looking. 

Encamped  at  a  quarter  before  nine,  in  good  time  to  toucly 
his  three-cornered  hat  to  the  oldest  of  men  as  they  passed  in 
to  Teilson's,  Jerry  took  up  his  station  on  this  windy  March 
morning,  with  young  Jerry  standing  by  him,  when  not  engaged 
in  making  forays  through  the  Bar,  to  inflict  bodily  and  mental 
injuries  of  an  acute  description  on  passing  boys  who  were 
small  enough  for  his  amiable  purpose.  Father  and  son,  ex- 
tremely like  each  other,  looking  silently  on  at  the  morning 
traffic  in  Fleet-street,  with  their  two  heads  as  near  to  one 
another  as  the  two  eyes  of  each  were,  bore  a  considerable 
resemblance  to  a  pair  of  monkeys.  The  resemblance  was 
not  lessened  by  the  accidental  circumstance,  that  the  mature 
Jerry  bit  and  spat  out  straw,  while  the  twinkling  eyes  of  the 
youthful  Jerry  were  as  restlessly  watchful  of  him  as  of  every- 
thing else  in  Fleet  street. 

The  head  of  one  of  the  regular  indoor  messengers  attached 
to  Teilson's  establishment  was  put  through  the  door,  and  the 
word  was  given  : 

"  Porter  wanted  !  " 

"  Hooray,  father  !    Here's  an  early  job  to  begin  with  !  " 

Having  thus  given  his  parent  God  speed,  young  Jerry 
seated  himself  on  the  stool,  entered  on  his  reversionary  in- 
terest in  the  straw  his  father  had  been  chewing,  and  cogitated. 


A  SIGHT. 


57 


"  Al-  ways  rusty  !  His  fingers  is  al-ways  rusty  ! "  muttered 
young  Jerry.  "  Where  does  my  father  get  all  that  iron  rust 
from  ?    He  don't  get  no  iron  rust  here  !  " 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  SIGHT. 

"  You  know  the  Old  Bailey  well,  no  doubt  ?  "  said  one  of 
the  oldest  of  clerks  to  Jerry  the  messenger. 

**Ye-es,  sir,"  returned  Jerry,  in  something  of  a  dogged 
manner,    "  I  do  know  the  Bailey." 

"  Just  so.    And  you  know  Mr.  Lorry." 

"  I  know  Mr.  Lorry,  sir,  much  better  than  I  know  the  Bai- 
ley. Much  better,"  said  Jerry,  not  unlike  a  reluctant  witness 
at  the  establishment  in  question,  "  than  I,  as  a  honest  trades- 
man, wish  to  know  the  Bailey." 

"  Very  well.  Find  the  door  where  the  witnesses  go  in,  and 
show  the  door-keeper  this  note  for  Mr.  Lorry.  He  will  then 
let  you  in." 

"  Into  the  court,  sir  ?  " 

"  Into  the  court." 

Mr.  Cruncher's  eyes  seemed  to  get  a  little  closer  to  one 
another,  and  to  interchange  the  inquiry,  What  do  you  think 
of  this  ? " 

"  Am  I  to  wait  in  the  court,  sir "  he  asked,  as  the  result 
of  that  conference. 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  The  door-keeper  will  pass  the 
note  to  Mr.  Lorry,  and  do  you  maKC  any  gesture  that  will  at- 
tract Mr.  Lorry's  attention,  and  show  him  where  you  stand. 
Then  what  you  have  to  do,  is,  to  remain  there  until  he  wants 
you." 

"  Is  that  all,  sir  ?  " 

"  That's  all.  He  wishes  to  have  a  messenger  at  hand. 
This  is  to  tell  him  you  are  there." 

As  the  ancient  clerk  deliberately  folded  and  superscribed 
the  note,  Mr.  Cruncher,  after  surveying  him  in  silence  until 
he  came  to  the  blotting-paper  stage,  remarked  : 

"I  suppose  they'll  be  trying  Forgeries  this  morning?^' 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


"  Treason ! " 

"That's  quartering/'  said  Jerry.    "  Barbarous  !  " 

"  It  is  the  law,"  remarked  tiie  ancient  clerk,  turning  his 
surprised  spectacles  upon  him.    "  It  is  the  law." 

"  It's  hard  in  the  law  to  spile  a  man,  I  think.  It's  hard 
enough  to  kill  him,  but  it's  wery  hard  to  spile  him,  sir." 

"  Not  at  all,"  returned  the  ancient  clerk.  "  Speak  well  ot 
the  law.  Take  care  of  your  chest  and  voice,  my  good  friend, 
and  leave  the  law  to  take  care  of  itself.  I  give  you  that  ad 
vice." 

"  It's  the  damp,  sir,  what  settles  on  my  chest  and  voice,'-' 
said  Jerry.  "  I  leave  you  to  judge  what  a  damp  way  of  earn- 
ing a  living  mine  is." 

''Well,  well,"  said  the  old  clerk  ;  "  we  all  havt  our  various 
ways  of  gaining  a  livelihood.  Some  of  us  have  damp  ways, 
and  some  of  us  have  dry  ways.  Here  u  che  letter.  Go 
along." 

Jerry  took  the  letter,  and,  remarking  to  himself  with  less 
internal  deference  than  he  made  an  out>vard  show  of,  ''You 
are  a  lean  old  one,  too,"  made  his  bow,  informed  his  son,  in 
passing,  of  his  destination,  and  went  his  way. 

They  hanged  at  Tyburn,  in  those  days,  so  the  street  out- 
side Newgate  had  not  obtained  one  infamous  notoriety  that 
has  since  attached  to  it.  Bu/,  the  gaol  was  a  vile  place,  in 
which  most  kinds  of  debauchery  and  villainy  were  practised, 
and  where  dire  diseases  we:e  bred,  that  came  into  courts  with 
the  prisoners,  and  sometimes  rushed  straight  from  the  dock 
at  my  Lord  Chief  Justice  himself,  and  pulled  him  off  th^ 
bench.  It  had  more  than  once  happened,  that  the  Judge  in 
the  black  cap  pronounced  his  own  doom  as  certainly  as  the 
prisoner's,  and  even  died  before  him.  For  the  rest,  the  Old 
Bailey  was  famous  as  a  kind  of  deadly  inn-yard,  from  which 
pale  travellers  set  out  continually,  in  carts  and  coaches,  on  a 
violent  passage  into  the  other  world  :  traversing  some  two 
miles  and  a  half  of  public  street  and  road,  and  shaming  few 
good  citize.is,  if  any.  So  powerful  is  use,  and  so  desirable 
to  be  good  use  in  the  beginning.  It  was  famous,  too,  for  the 
pillory,  L  wise  old  institution,  that  inflicted  a  punishment  of 
which  no  one  could  forsee  the  extent ;  also,  for  the  whipping- 
post, LQOther  dear  old  institution,  very  humanizing  and  soften- 
ing to  behold  in  action  ;  also,  for  extensiv^e  transactions  in 
blojd-money,  another  fragment  of  ancestral  wisdom,  system- 
atically leading  to  the  most  frightful  mercenary  crimes  that 


A  SIGHT, 


59 


could  be  committed  under  Heaven.  Altogether,  the  Old  Bai- 
ley, at  that  date,  was  a  choice  illustration  of  the  precept,  that 
"  Whatever  is  is  right ; "  an  aphorism  that  would  be  as  final  as 
it  is  lazy,  did  it  not  include  the  troublesome  consequence,  that 
nothing  that  ever  was,  was  wrong. 

Making  his  way  through  the  tainted  crowd,  dispersed  up 
and  down  this  hideous  scene  of  action,  with  the  skill  of  a  man 
accustomed  to  make  his  way  quietly,  the  messenger  found  out 
the  door  he  sought,  and  handed  in  his  letter  through  a  trap  in 
it.  For,  people  then  paid  to  see  the  play  at  the  Old  Bailey, 
just  as  they  paid  to  see  the  play  in  Bedlam — only  the  former 
entertainment  was  much  the  dearer.  Therefore,  all  the  Old 
Bailey  doors  were  well  guarded — except,  indeed,  the  social 
doors  by  which  the  criminals  got  there,  and  those  were  always 
left  wide  open. 

After  some  delay  and  demur,  the  door  grudgingly  turned 
on  its  hinges  a  very  little  way,  and  allowed  Mr.  Jerry  Cruncher 
to  squeeze  himself  into  court. 

"  What's  on  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  whisper,  of  the  man  he 
found  himself  next  to. 

"  Nothing  yet." 

"  What's  coming  on  ?  " 

"The  Treason  case." 

"  The  quartering  one,  eh  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  "  returned  the  man,  with  a  relish  ;  "  he'll  be  drawn 
on  a  hurdle  to  be  half  hanged,  and  then  he'll  be  taken  down 
and  sliced  before  his  own  face,  and  then  his  inside  will  be 
taken  out  and  burnt  while  he  looks  on,  and  then  his  head  will 
be  chopped  off,  and  he'll  be  cut  into  quarters.  That's  the 
sentence." 

"  If  he's  found  Guilty,  you  mean  to  say  ? "  Jerry  added, 
by  way  of  proviso. 

"  Oh  !  "  they'll  find  him  guilty,"  said  the  other.  "  Don't 
you  be  afraid  of  that." 

Mr.  Cruncher's  attention  was  here  diverted  to  the  door- 
keeper, whom  he  saw  making  his  way  to  Mr.  Lorry,  with  the 
note  in  his  hand.  Mr.  Lorry  sat  at  a  table,  among  the  gentle- 
men in  wigs  :  not  far  from  a  wigged  gentleman,  the  prisoner's 
counsel,  who  had  a  great  bundle  of  papers  before  him  :  and 
nearly  opposite  another  wigged  gentleman  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  whose  whole  attention,  when  Mr.  Cruncher  looked 
at  him  then  or  afterwards,  seemed  to  be  concentrated  on  the 
ceiling  of  the  court.    After  some  gruff  coughing  and  rubbing 


6o 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


of  his  chin  and  signing  with  his  hand,  Jerry  attracted  the  no 
tice  of  Mr.  Lorry,  who  had  stood  up  to  look  for  him,  and  who 
quietly  nodded  and  sat  down  again. 

"  What's  he  got  to  do  with  the  case  ?  "  asked  the  man  he 
had  spoken  with. 

"  Blest  if  I  know,"  said  Jerry. 

"  What  have  you  got  to  do  with  it;  then,  if  a  person  may 
inquire  ? " 

"  Blest  if  I  know  that  either,"  said  Jerry. 

The  entrance  of  the  Judge,  and  a  consequent  great  stir 
and  settling  down  in  the  court,  stopped  the  dialogue.  Pres- 
ently, the  dock  became  the  central  point  of  interest.  Two 
gaolers,  who  had  been  standing  there,  went  out,  and  the 
prisoner  was  brought  in,  and  put  to  the  bar. 

Everybody  present,  except  the  one  wigged  gentleman  who 
looked  at  the  ceiling,  stared  at  him.  All  the  human  breath  in 
the  place,  rolled  at  him,  like  a  sea,  or  a  wind,  or  a  fire.  Eager 
faces  strained  round  pillars  and  corners,  to  get  a  sight  of  him  ,* 
spectators  in  back  rows  stood  up,  not  to  miss  a  hair  of  him  ; 
people  on  the  floor  of  the  court,  laid  their  hands  on  the  shoul- 
ders of  the  people  before  them,  to  help  themselves,  at  anybody's 
cost,  to  a  view  of  him — stood  a-tiptoe,  got  upon  ledges,  stood 
upon  next  to  nothing,  to  see  every  inch  of  him.  Conspicuous 
among  these  latter,  like  an  animated  bit  of  the  spiked  wall  of 
Newgate,  Jerry  stood  :  aiming  at  the  prisoner  the  beery  breath 
of  a  whet  he  had  taken  as  he  came  along,  and  discharging  it 
to  mingle  with  the  waves  of  other  beer,  and  gin,  and  tea,  and 
coffee,  and  what  not,  that  flowed  at  him,  and  already  brr'\e 
upon  the  great  windows  behind  him  in  an  impure  mist  and 
rain. 

The  object  of  all  this  staring  and  blaring,  was  a  young 
man  of  about  five-and-twenty,  w^ell-grown  and  well-looking, 
with  a  sunburnt  cheek  and  a  dark  eye.  His  condition  was 
that  of  a  young  gentleman.  He  was  plainly  dressed  in  blacky 
or  very  dark  gray,  and  his  hair,  which  was  long  and  dark, 
was  gathered  in  a  ribbon  at  the  back  of  his  neck :  more  to  be 
out  of  his  v/ay  than  for  ornament.  As  an  emotion  of  the 
mind  will  express  itself  through  any  covering  of  the  body,  so 
the  paleness  which  his  situation  engendered  came  through  the 
brown  upon  his  cheek,  showing  the  soul  to  be  stronger  than 
the  sun.  He  was  otherwise  quite  self-possessed,  bowed  to 
the  Judge,  and  stood  quiet. 

The  sort  of  interest  with  which  this  man  was  stared  and 


A  SIGHT 


6l 


breathed  at,  was  not  a  sort  that  elevated  humanity.  Had  he 
stood  in  peril  of  a  less  horrible  sentence — had  there  been  a 
chance  of  any  one  of  its  savage  details  being  spared — by  just 
so  much  would  he  have  lost  in  his  fascination.  The  form  that 
was  to  be  doomed  to  be  so  shamefully  mangled,  v/as  the  sight ; 
the  immortal  creature  that  was  to  be  so  butchered  and  torn 
asunder,  yielded  the  sensation.  Whatever  gloss  the  various 
spectators  put  upon  the  interest,  according  to  their  several 
arts  and  powers  of  self-deceit,  the  interest  was,  at  the  root  of 
It,  Ogreish. 

Silence  in  the  court !  Charles  Darnay  had  yesterday 
pleaded  Not  Guilty  to-  an  indictment  denouncing  him  (with 
infinite  jingle  and  jangle)  for  that  he  was  a  false  traitor  to 
our  serene,  illustrious,  excellent,  and  so  forth,  prince,  our 
Lord  the  King,  by  reason  of  his  having,  on  divers  occasions, 
and  by  divers  means  and  ways,  assisted  Lewis,  the  French 
King,  in  his  wars  against  our  said  serene,  illustrious,  excellent, 
and  so  forth  ;  that  was  to  say,  by  coming  and  going,  between 
the  dominions  of  our  said  serene,  illustrious,  excellent,  and 
so  forth,  and  those  of  the  said  French  Lewis,  and  wickedly, 
falsely,  traitorously,  and  otherwise  evil-adverbiously,  revealing 
to  the  said  French  Lewis  what  forces  our  said  serene,  illustri- 
ous, excellent,  and  so  forth,  had  in  preparation  to  send  to 
Canada  and  North  America.  This  much,  Jerry,  with  his 
head  becoming  more  and  more  spiky  as  the  law  terms  bristled 
it,  made  out  with  huge  satisfaction,  and  so  arrived  circuitously 
at  the  understanding  that  the  aforesaid,  and  over  and  over 
again  aforesaid,  Charles  Darnay,  stood  there  before  him  upon 
his  trial  ;  that  the  jury  were  swearing  in  ;  and  that  Mr.  At- 
torney-General was  making  ready  to  speak. 

The  accused,  who  was  (and  who  knew  he  was)  being 
mentally  hanged,  beheaded,  and  quartered,  by  everybody 
.there,  neither  flinched  from  the  situation,  nor  assumed  any 
theatrical  air  in  it.  He  was  quiet  and  attentive ;  watched 
.^he  opening  proceedings  with  a  grave  interest ;  and  stood 
/vith  his  hands  resting  on  the  slab  of  wood  before  him,  so 
composedly,  that  they  had  not  displaced  a  leaf  of  the  herbs 
with  which  it  was  strew^n.  The  court  was  all  bestrewn  with 
herbs  and  sprinkled  with  vinegar,  as  a  precaution  against  gaol 
air  and  gaol  fever. 

Over  the  prisoner's  head  there  was  a  mirror,  to  throw  the 
light  down  upon  him.  Crowxls  of  the  wicked  and  the  wretched 
had  been  reflected  in  it,  and  had  passed  from  its  surface  and 


62 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


this  earth's  together.  Haunted  in  a  most  ghastly  mannei 
that  abominable  place  would  have  been,  if  the  glass  could 
ever  have  rendered  back  its  reflections,  as  the  ocean  is  one 
day  to  give  up  its  dead.  Some  passing  thought  of  the  infamy 
and  disgrace  for  which  it  had  been  reserved,  may  have  struck 
the  prisoner's  mind.  Be  that  as  it  may,  a  change  in  his  posi- 
tion making  him  conscious  of  a  bar  of  light  across  his  face, 
he  looked  up  ;  and  when  he  saw  the  glass  his  face  flushed, 
and  his  right  hand  pushed  the  herbs  away. 

It  happened,  that  the  action  turned  his  face  to  that  side 
of  the  court  which  was  on  his  left.  About  on  a  level  with 
his  eyes,  there  sat,  in  that  corner  of  the  Judge's  bench,  two 
persons  upon  whom  his  look  immediately  rested  ;  so  immedi- 
ately, and  so  much  to  the  changing  of  his  aspect,  that  all  the 
eyes  that  were  turned  upon  him,  turned  to  them. 

The  spectators  saw  in  the  two  figures,  a  young  lady  of 
little  more  than  twenty,  and  a  gentleman  who  was  evidently 
her  father  ;  a  man  of  a  very  remarkable  appearance  in  respect 
of  the  absolute  whiteness  of  his  hair,  and  a  certain  indescrib- 
able intensity  of  face  :  not  of  an  active  kind,  but  pondering 
and  self-communing.  When  this  expression  was  upon  him, 
he  looked  as  if  he  were  old ;  but  when  it  was  stirred  and 
broken  up — as  it  was  now,  in  a  moment,  on  his  speaking  to 
his  daughter — he  became  a  handsome  man,  not  past  the 
prime  of  life. 

His  daughter  had  one  of  her  hands  drawn  through  his 
arm,  as  she  sat  by  him,  and  the  other  pressed  upon  it.  She 
had  drawn  close  to  him,  in  her  dread  of  the  scene,  and  in 
her  pity  for  the  prisoner.  Her  forehead  had  been  strikingly 
expressive  of  an  engrossing  terror  and  compassion  that  saw 
nothing  but  the  peril  of  the  accused.  This  had  been  so  very 
noticeable,  so  very  powerfully  and  naturally  shown,  that  starers 
who  had  had  no  pity  for  him  were  touched  by  her ;  and  the 
whisper,  went  about,    Who  are  they  ?  " 

Jerry,  the  messenger,  who  had  made  his  own  observations, 
in  his  own  manner,  and  who  had  been  sucking  the  rust  off 
his  fingers  in  his  absorption,  stretched  his  neck  to  hear  who 
they  were.  The  crowd  about  him  had  pressed  and  passed 
the  inquiry  on  to  the  nearest  attendant,  and  from  him  it  had 
been  more  slowly  pressed  and  passed  back  :  at  last  it  got 
to  Jerry. 

"  Witnesses." 

"  For  which  side  ? 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT. 


63 


"  Against/' 

"  Against  what  side  ? ' 

"  The  prisoner's." 

The  Judge,  whose  eyes  had  gone  in  the  general  direction, 
recalled  them,  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  and  looked  steadily  at 
the  man  whose  life  was  in  his  hand,  as  Mr.  Attorney-General 
rose  to  spin  the  rope,  grind  the  axe,  and  hammer  the  nails 
into  the  scaffold. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Mr.  Attorney-General  had  to  inform  the  jury,  -that  the 
prisoner  before  them,  though  young  in  years,  was  old  in  the 
treasonable  practices  which  claimed  the  forfeit  of  his  life. 
That  this  correspondence  with  the  public  enemy  was  not  a 
correspondence  of  to-da}'',  or  of  yesterday,  or  even  of  last 
year,  or  of  the  year  before.  That,  it  was  certain  the  prisoner 
had,  for  longer  than  that,  been  in  the  habit  of  passing  and 
repassing  between  France  and  England,  on  secret  business  of 
which  he  could  give  no  honest  account.  That,  if  it  were  in 
the  nature  of  traitorous  ways  to  thrive  (which  happily  it 
never  was),  the  real  wickedness  and  guilt  of  his  business 
might  have  remained  undiscovered.  That  Providence,  how- 
ever, had  put  it  into  the  heart  of  a  person  who  was  beyond 
fear  and  beyond  reproach,  to  ferret  out  the  nature  of  the  pris- 
oner's schemes,  and,  struck  with  horror,  to  disclose  them  to 
his  Majesty's  Chief  Secretary  of  State  and  most  honorable 
Privy  Council.  That,  this  patriot  would  be  produced  before 
them,  That,  his  position  and  attitude  were,  on  the  whole, 
sublime.  That,  he  had  been  the  prisoner's  friend,  but,  at  once 
in  an  auspicious  and  an  evil  hour  detecting  his  infamy,  had  re- 
solved to  immolate  the  traitor  he  could  no  longer  cherish  in  his 
bosom,  on  the  sacred  altar  of  his  country.  That,  if  statues 
were  decreed  in  Britain,  as  in  ancient  Greece  and  Rome,  to 
public  benfactors,  this  shining  citizen  would  assuredly  have 
had  one.    That,  as  they  were  not  so  decreed,  he  probably 


64 


A  7'ALE  OF  TWO  C/77ES: 


would  not  have  one.  That,  Virtue,  as  had  been  observed  by 
the  poets  (in  many  passages  which  he  well  knew  the  jury  would 
have,  word  for  word,  at  the  tips  of  their  tongues ;  whereat  the 

J'ury's  countenances  displayed  a  guilty  consciousness  that  they 
.:new  nothing  about  the  passages),  was  in  a  manner  contagi 
ous  ;  more  especially  the  bright  virtue  known  as  patriotism,  ol 
love  of  country.  That,  the  lofty  example  of  this  immaculate 
and  unimpeachable  witness  for  the  Crown,  to  refer  to  whom 
however  unworthily  was  an  honor,  had  communicated  itself  to 
the  prisoner's  servant,  and  had  engendered  in  him  a  holy  de- 
termination to  examine  his  master's  table-drawers  and  pockets, 
and  secrete  his  papers.  That,  he  (Mr.  Attorney-General)  was 
prepared  to  hear  some  disparagement  attempted  of  this  ad- 
mirable servant ;  but  that,  in  a  general  way,  he  preferred  him 
to  his  (Mr.  Attorney-General's)  brothers  and  sisters,  and  hon- 
ored him  more  than  his  (Mr.  Attorney-General's)  father  and 
mother.  That,  he  called  with  confidence  on  the  jury  to  come 
and  do  likewise.  That,  the  evidence  of  these  two  witnesses, 
coupled  with  the  documents  of  their  discovering  that  would 
be  produced,  would  show  the  prisoner  to  have  been  fur- 
nished with  lists  of  his  Majesty's  forces,  and  of  their  dis- 
position and  preparation,  both  by  sea  and  land,  and  would 
leave  no  doubt  that  he  had  habitually  conveyed  such  informa- 
tion to  a  hostile  power.  That,  these  lists  could  not  be  proved 
to  be  in  the  prisoner's  handwriting ;  but  that  it  was  all  the 
same  ;  that,  indeed,  it  was  rather  the  better  for  the  prosecution, 
as  showing  the  prisoner  to  be  artful  in  his  precautions.  That, 
the  proof  would  go  back  five  years,  and  would  show  the  pris- 
oner already  engaged  in  these  pernicious  missions,  within  a 
few  weeks  before  the  date  of  the  very  first  action  fought  be- 
tween the  British  troops  and  the  Americans.  That,  for  these 
reasons,  the  jury,  being  a  loyal  jury  (as  he  knew  they  were), 
and  being  a  responsible  jury  (as  tkey  knew  they  were),  must 
positively  find  the  prisoner  Guilty,  and  make  an  end  of  him, 
whether  they  liked  it  or  not.  That,  they  never  could  lay  their 
neads  upon  their  pillows ;  that,  they  never  could  tolerate  the 
idea  of  their  wives  laying  their  heads  upon  their  pillows  ;  that, 
they  never  could  endure  the  notion  of  their  children  laying 
their  heads  upon  their  pillows;  in  short,  that  there  never 
more  could  be,  for  them  or  theirs,  any  laying  of  heads  upon 
pillows  at  all,  unless  the  prisoner's  head  was  taken  off.  That 
head  Mr.  Attorney-General  concluded  by  demanding  of  them, 
in  the  name  of  everything  he  could  think  of  with  a  round  turn 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT. 


05 


jn  it,  and  on  the  faith  of  his  solemn  asseveration  that  he  already 
considered  the  prisoner  as  good  as  dead  and  gone. 

When  the  Attorney-General  ceased,  a  buzz  arose  in  the 
court  as  if  a  cloud  of  great  blue-flies  were  swarming  about  the 
prisoner,  in  anticipation  of  what  he  was  soon  to  become. 
When  toned  down  again,  the  unimpeachable  patriot  appeared 
in  the  witness-box. 

Mr.  Solicitor-General  then,  following  his  leader's  lead, 
examined  the  patriot  ;  John  Barsad,  gentleman,  by  naniCo 
The  story  of  his  pure  soul  was  exactly  what  Mr.  Attorney- 
General  had  described  it  to  be — perhaps,  ii  it  had  a  fault,  a 
little  too  exactly.  Having  released  his  noble  bosom  of  its 
burden,  he  would  have  modestly  withdiawn  himself,  but  that 
the  wigged  gentleman  with  the  papers  before  him,  sitting  not 
far  from  Mr.  Lorry,  begged  to  ask  him  a  few  questions.  The 
wigged  gentleman  sitting  opposite,  still  looking  at  the  ceiling 
of  the  court. 

Had  he  ever  been  a  spy  himself  >  No,  he  scorned  the 
base  insinuation.  What  did  he  live  upon?  His  propert}^ 
Where  was  his  property  ?  He  didn't  precisely  reme.nber 
where  it  was.  What  was  it  ?  No  business  of  anybody's.  Had 
he  inherited  it  ?  Yes,  he  had.  From  whom  ?  Distant  rela- 
tion. Very  distant  ?  Rather.  Ever  been  in  prison  ?  Cer- 
tainly not.  Never  in  a  debtors'  prison  ?  Didn't  see  what  that 
had  to  do  with  it.  Never  in  a  debtors'  prison  ? — Come,  once 
again.  Never  ?  Yes.  How  many  times  ?  Two  or  three 
times.  Not  five  or  six  ?  Perhaps.  Of  what  profession  ? 
Gentleman.  Ever  been  kicked  t  Might  have  been.  Fre- 
quently ?  No.  Ever  kicked  down  stairs  ?  Decidedly  not  ; 
once  received  a  kick  on  the  top  of  a  staircase,  and  fell  down 
stairs  of  his  own  accord.  Kicked  on  that  occasion  for  cheat- 
ing at  dice  t  Something  to  that  effect  was  said  by  the  intoxi- 
cated liar  who  commited  the  assault,  but  it  was  not  true. 
Swear  it  was  not  true  ?  Positively.  Ever  live  by  cheating 
at  play?  Never.  Ever  live  by  play  ?  Not  more  than  other 
gentlemen  do.  Ever  borrow  money  of  the  prisoner  ?  YeSe 
Ever  pay  him  ?  No.  Was  not  this  intimacy  with  the  prisoner, 
in  reality  a  very  slight  one,  forced  upon  the  prisoner  in  coaches, 
inns,  and  packets  ?  No.  Sure  he  saw  the  prisoner  with  these 
lists?  Certain.  Knew  no  more  about  the  lists  ?  No.  Had 
not  procured  them  himself,  for  instance  ?  No.  Expect  to 
get  anything  by  this  evidence  ?  No.  Not  in  regular  govern- 
ment  pay  and  employment,  to  lay  traps  ?    Oh  dear  no !    Or  to 


66 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


do  anything  ?  Oh  dear  no !  Swear  that  ?  Over  and  ovei 
again.  No  motives  but  motives  of  sheer  patriotism  ?  None 
whatever. 

The  virtuous  servant,  Roger  Cly,  swore  his  way  through 
the  case  at  a  great  rate.  He  had  taken  service  with  the  pris- 
oner, in  good  faith  and  simplicity,  four  years  ago.  He  had 
asked  the  prisoner,  aboard  the  Calais  packet,  if  he  wanted  a 
handy  fellow,  and  the  prisoner  had  engaged  him.  He  had 
not  asked  the  prisoner  to  take  the  handy  fellow  as  an  act  of 
charity — never  thought  of  such  a  thing.  He  began  to  have 
suspicions  of  the  prisoner,  and  to  keep  an  eye  upon  him,  soon 
afterwards.  In  arranging  his  clothes,  while  travelling,  he  had 
seen  similar  lists  to  these  in  the  prisoner's  pockets,  over  and 
over  again.  He  had  taken  these  lists  from  the  drawer  of  the 
prisoner's  desk.  He  had  not  put  them  there  first.  He  had 
seen  the  prisoner  show  these  identical  lists  to  French  gentle- 
men at  Calais,  and  similar  lists  to  French  gentlemen,  both  at 
Calais  and  Boulogne.  He  loved  his  country,  and  couldn't 
bear  it,  and  had  given  information.  He  had  never  been  sus- 
pected of  stealing  a  silver  tea-pot ;  he  had  been  maligned  ie- 
specting  a  mustard-pot,  but  it  turned  out  to  be  only  a  plated 
one.  He  had  known  the  last  witness  seven  or  eight  years ; 
that  was  merely  a  coincidence.  He  didn't  call  it  a  particularly 
curious  coincidence  ;  most  coincidences  were  curious.  Neither 
did  he  call  it  a  curious  coincidence  that  true  patriotism  was 
/lis  only  motive  too.  He  was  a  true  Briton,  and  hoped  th^re 
were  many  like  him. 

The  blue-flies  buzzed  again,  and  Mr.  Attorney-General 
called  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry. 

"  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorrv,  are  you  a  clerk  in  Tellson's  bank  ?  '* 

"  I  am." 

"  On  a  certain  Friday  night  in  November  one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  seventy-five,  did  business  occasion  you  to 
travel  between  London  and  Dover  by  the  mail  1  " 

"  It  did." 

Were  there  any  other  passengers  in  the  mail  1  " 
"  Two." 

Did  they  alight  on  the  road  in  the  course  of  the  night  ? " 
"  They  did." 

"  Mr.  Lorry,  look  upon  the  prisoner.  Was  he  one  of 
those  two  passengers  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  undertake  to  say  that  it  was." 

"  Does  he  resemble  either  of  these  two  passengers  ?  " 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT. 


67 


"  Both  were  so  wrapped  up,  and  the  night  was  so  dark,  and 
^ve  were  all  so  reserved,  that  I  cannot  undertake  to  say  even 
that.'^ 

"  Mr.  Lorry,  look  again  upon  the  prisoner.  Supposing 
him  wrapped  up  as  those  two  passengers  were,  is  there  any- 
thing in  his  bulk  and  stature  to  render  it  unlikely  that  he  was 
3ne  of  them  ?  " 

^'No.'' 

"  You  will  not  swear,  Mr.  Lorry,  that  he  was  not  one  of 
them  ? 
"No.'' 

"  So  at  least  you  say  he  may  have  been  one  of  them  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Except  that  I  remember  them  both  to  have  been — 
like  myself — timorous  of  highwaymen,  and  the  prisoner  has 
not  a  timorous  air." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  counterfeit  of  timidity,  Mr.  Lorry  ? " 

"I  certainly  have  seen  diat." 

"  Mr.  Lorry,  look  once  more  upon  the  prisoner.  Have 
you  seen  him,  to  your  certain  knowledge,  before  ?  " 
"  I  have.'' 
"When?" 

"  I  was  returning  from  France  a  few  days  afterwards,  and 
at  Calais,  the  prisoner  came  on  board  the  packet-ship  in  which 
I  returned  and  made  the  voyage  with  me." 

"  At  what  hour  did  he  come  on  board  ?  " 

"  At  a  little  after  midnight." 

"  In  the  dead  of  the  night.    Was  he  the  only  passenger 
who  came  on  board  at  that  untimely  hour  t " 
"  He  happened  to  be  the  only  one." 

"  Never  mind  ^out  *  happening,'  Mr.  Lorry.  He  was 
the  only  passenger  who  came  on  board  in  the  dead  of  the 
night  ? " 

"  He  was." 

"  Were  you  travelling  alone,  Mr.  Lorry,  or  with  any  com- 
panion ? " 

"  With  two  companions.  A  gentleman  and  lady.  They 
are  here." 

"  They  are  here.  Had  you  any  conversation  with  the 
prisoner  ? " 

"  Hardly  any.  The  weather  was  stormy,  and  the  pas- 
sage  long  and  rough,  and  I  lay  on  a  sofa,  almost  from  shore 
to  shore." 

"  Miss  Manette  !  " 


68 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


The  young  lady  to  whom  all  eyes  had  been  turned  before, 
and  were  now  turned  again,  stood  up  where  she  had  sat.  Her 
father  rose  with  her,  and  kept  her  hand  drawn  through  his 
arm. 

"  Miss  Manette,  look  upon  the  prisoner.'' 

To  be  confronted  with  such  pity,  and  such  earnest  youth 
and  beauty,  was  far  more  trying  to  the  accused  than  to  be 
confronted  with  all  the  crowd.  Standing,  as  it  were,  apart 
with  her  on  the  edge  of  his  grave,  not  all  the  strange  curi- 
osity that  looked  on,  could,  for  the  moment,  nerve  him  to 
remain  quite  still.  His  hurried  right  hand  parcelled  out  the 
herbs  before  him  into  imaginary  beds  of  flowers  in  a  garden ; 
and  his  efforts  to  control  and  steady  his  breathing  shook  the 
lips  from  which  the  color  rushed  to  his  heart.  The  buzz  of 
the  great  flies  was  loud  again. 

"  Miss  Manette,  hav*^  you  seen  the  prisoner  before  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir.'' 

"  Where  ? " 

"  On  board  of  the  packet-ship  just  now  referred  to,  and 
on  the  same  occasion." 

"  You  are  the  young  lady  just  now  referred  to  ? " 
"  O  !  most  unhappily,  I  am  !  " 

The  plaintive  tone  of  her  compassion  merged  into  the  less 
musical  voice  of  the  judge,  as  he  said  something  fiercely : 
"  Answer  the  questions  put  to  you,  and  make  no  remark  upon 
them.  ' 

"  Miss  Manette,  had  you  any  conversation  with  the  pris- 
oner on  that  passage  across  the  Channel } " 
"Yes,  sir." 
"Recall  it." 

In  the  midst  of  a  profound  stillness,  she  faintly  began : 

"  When  the  gentleman  came  on  board  " 

"  Do  you  mean  the  prisoner  ?  "  inquired  the  Judge,  knit- 
ting his  brows. 

"  Yes,  my  Lord." 
"Then  say  the  prisoner," 

"  When  the  prisoner  came  on  board,  he  noticed  that  my 
father,"  turning  her  eyes  lovingly  to  him  as  he  stood  beside 
her,  "was  much  fatigued  and  in  a  very  weak  state  of  health. 
My  father  was  so  reduced  that  I  was  afraid  to  take  him  out 
of  the  air,  and  I  had  made  a  bed  for  him  on  the  deck  near 
the  cabin  steps,  and  I  sat  on  the  deck  at  his  side  to  take  care 
of  him.    There  were  no  other  passeng^^-s  that  night,  but  we 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT. 


69 


four.  The  prisoner  was  so  good  as  to  beg  permission  to  advise 
me  how  I  could  shelter  my  father  from  the  wind  and  weather, 
better  than  I  had  done.  I  had  not  known  how  to  do  it  well, 
not  understanding  how  the  wind  would  set  when  we  were  out 
of  the  harbor.  He  did  it  for  me.  He  expressed  great  gen- 
tleness and  kindness  for  my  father's  state,  and  I  am  sure  he 
felt  it.  That  was  the  manner  of  our  beginning  to  speak 
together.'' 

^'  Let  me  interrupt  you  for  a  moment.    Had  he  come  on 
board  alone  ?  " 
^^No." 

"  How  many  were  with  him  ? 

"  Two  French  gentlemen." 

"  Had  they  conferred  together?" 

"  They  had  conferred  together  until  the  last  moment,  when 
it  was  necessary  for  the  French  gentlemen  to  be  landed  in 
their  boat." 

Had  any  papers  been  handed  about  among  them,  similar 
to  these  lists  }  " 

"  Some  papers  had  been  handed  about  among  them,  but  I 
don't  know  what  papers." 

"  Like  these  in  shape  and  size  ?  " 

"  Possibly,  but  indeed  I  don't  know,  although  they  stood 
whispering  very  near  to  me :  because  they  stood  at  the  top 
of  the  cabin  steps  to  have  the  light  of  the  lamp  that  was  hang- 
ing there  ;  it  was  a  dull  lamp,  and  they  spoke  very  low,  and 
I  did  not  hear  what  they  said,  and  saw  only  that  they  looked 
at  papers." 

"  Now,  to  the  prisoner's  conversation.  Miss  Manette." 
The  prisoner  was  as  open  in  his  confidence  with  me — - 
which  arose  out  of  my  helpless  situation — as  he  was  kind,  and 
good,  and  useful  to  my  father.    I  hope,"  bursting  into  tears 
^''I  may  not  repay  him  by  doing  him  harm  to-day." 

Buzzing  from  the  blue-flies. 

"  Miss  Manette,  if  the  prisoner  does  not  perfectly  under- 
stand that  you  give  the  evidence  which  it  is  your  duty  to  give 
— which  you  must  give — and  which  you  cannot  escape  from 
giving — with  great  unwillingness,  he  is  the  only  person  pres- 
ent in  that  condition.    Please  to  go  on." 

"  He  told  me  that  he  was  travelling  on  business  of  a  deli- 
cate  and  difficult  nature,  which  might  get  people  into  trouble^ 
and  that  he  was  therefore  travelling  under  an  assumed  name. 
He  said  that  his  business  had,  within  a  few  days,  taken  him 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


to  France,  and  might,  at  intervals,  take  him  backwards  and 
forwards  between  France  and  England  for  a  long  time  to 
come." 

"  Did  he  say  anything  about  America,  Miss  Manette  ?  Be 
particular." 

"  He  tried  to  explain  to  me  how  that  •  quarrel  had  arisen, 
and  he  said  that,  so  far  as  he  could  judge,  it  was  a  wrong  and 
foolish  one  on  England's  part.  He  added,  in  a  jesting  way, 
that  perhaps  George  Washington  might  gain  almost  as  great 
a  name  in  history  as  George  the  Third,  But  there  was  no 
harm  in  his  way  of  saying  this  :  it  was  said  laughingly,  and  to 
beguile  the  time." 

Any  strongly  marked  expression  of  face  on  the  part  of  a 
chief  actor  in  a  scene  of  great  interest  to  whom  many  eyes 
are  directed,  will  be  unconsciously  imitated  by  the  spectators. 
Her  forehead  was  painfully  anxious  and  intent  as  she  gave  this 
evidence,  and,  in  the  pauses  when  she  stopped  for  the  Judge 
to  write  it  down,  watched  its  effect  upon  the  counsel  for  and 
against.  Among  the  lookers-on  there  was  the  same  expres- 
sion in  all  quarters  of  the  court ;  insomuch,  that  a  great  ma- 
jority of  the  foreheads  there,  might  have  been  mirrors  reflect- 
ing the  witness  when  the  Judge  looked  up  from  his  notes  to 
glare  at  that  tremendous  heresy  about  George  Washington. 

Mr.  Attorney-General  now  signified  to  my  Lord,  that  he 
deemed  it  necessary,  as  a  matter  of  precaution  and  form,  to 
call  the  young  lady's  father.  Doctor  Manette.  Who  was 
called  accordingly. 

Doctor  Manette,  look  upon  the  prisoner.  Have  you 
ever  seen  him  before  ?  " 

Once.  When  he  called  at  my "  lodgings  in  London. 
Some  three  years,  or  three  years  and  a  half  ago." 

Can  you  identify  him  as  your  fellow-passenger  on  board 
the  packet,  or  speak  of  his  conversation  with  your  daughter? " 
Sir,  I  can  do  neither." 

"  Is  there  any  particular  and  special  reason  for  your  being 
unable  to  do  either  ?  " 

He  answered,  in  a  low  voice,  ^'  There  is." 

"  Has  it  been  your  misfortune  to  undergo  a  long  imprison- 
ment, without  trial,  or  even  accusation,  in  your  native  country, 
Doctor  Manette  ?  " 

He  answered,  in  a  tone  that  went  to  every  heart,  A  long 
/nprisonment." 

Were  you  newly  released  on  the  occasion  in  question?' 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT. 


They  tell  me  so.'' 

Have  you  no  remembrance  on  the  occasion  ?  " 

"  None.  My  mind  is  a  blank,  from  some  time — I  cannot 
even  say  what  time — when  I  employed  myself,  in  my  captiv- 
ity, in  making  shoes,  to  the  time  when  I  found  myself  living 
in  London  with  my  dear  daughter  here.  She  had  become 
familiar  to  me,  when  a  gracious  God  restored  my  faculties  ; 
but,  I  am  quite  unable  even  to  say  how  she  had  become  fami-^ 
liar.    I  have  no  remembrance  of  the  process." 

Mr.  Attorney-General  sat  down,  and  the  father  and  daugh- 
ter sat  down  together. 

A  singular  circumstance  then  arose  in  the  case.  The  ob- 
ject in  hand  being  to  show  that  the  prisoner  went  down,  with 
some  fellow-plotter  untracked,  in  the  Dover  mail  on  that  Fri- 
day night  in  November  five  years  ago,  and  got  out  of  the 
mail  in  the  night,  as  a  blind,  at  a  place  where  he  did  not  re- 
main, but  from  which  he  travelled  back  some  dozen  miles  or 
more,  to  a  garrison  and  dockyard,  and  there  collected  infor- 
,  mation  ;  a  witness  was  called  to  identify  him  as  having  been 
at  the  precise  time  required,  in  the  coffee-room  of  an  hotel  in 
that  garrison-and-dockyard  town,  waiting  for  another  person. 
The  prisoner's  counsel  was  cross-examining  this  witness  with 
no  result,  except  that  he  had  never  seen  the  prisoner  on  any 
other  occasion,  when  the  wigged  gentleman  who  had  all  this 
time  been  looking  at  the  ceiling  of  the  court,  wrote  a  word  or 
two  on  a  little  piece  of  paper,  screwed  it  up,  and  tossed  it  to 
him.  Opening  this  piece  of  paper  in  the  next  pause,  the  coun- 
sel looked  with  great  attention  and  curiosity  at  the  prisoner. 

"  You  say  again  you  are  quite  sure  that  it  was  the  pris- 
oner ? " 

The  witness  was  quite  sure. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  anybody  very  like  the  prisoner?  " 
Not  so  like  (the  witness  said)  as  that  he  could  be  mis- 
taken. 

"  Look  well  upon  that  gentleman,  my  learned  friend  there," 
pointing  to  him  who  had  tossed  the  paper  over,  "  and  then 
look  well  upon  the  prisoner.  How  say  you  ?  Are  they  very 
like  each  other  }  " 

Allowing  for  my  learned  friend's  appearance  being  careless 
and  slovenly  if  not  debauched,  they  were  sufficiently  like 
each  other  to  surprise,  not  only  the  witness,  but  everybody 
present,  when  they  were  thus  brought  into  comparison.  My 
Lord  being  prayed  to  bid  my  learned  friend  lay  aside  his  wig, 


72 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


and  giving  no  very  gracious  consent,  the  likeness  became 
much  more  remarkable.  My  Lord  inquired  of  Mr.  Stryver 
(the  prisoner's  counsel),  whether  they  were  next  to  try  Mr. 
Carton  (name  of  my  learned  friend)  for  treason  ?  But,  Mr. 
Stryver  replied  to  my  Lord,  no  ;  but  he  would  ask  the  witness 
to  tell  him  whether  what  happened  once,  might  happen  twice  ; 
Arhether  he  would  have  been  so  confident  if  he  had  seen  this 
illustration  of  his  rashness  sooner,  whether  he  would  be  so 
confident,  having  seen  it ;  and  more.  The  upshot  of  which, 
was,  to  smash  this  witness  like  a  crockery  vessel,  and  shiver 
his  part  of  the  case  to  useless  lumber. 

Mr.  Cruncher  had  by  this  time  taken  quite  a  lunch  of  rust 
off  his  fingers  in  his  following  of  the  evidence.  He  had  now 
to  attend  while  Mr.  Stryver  fitted  the '  prisoner's  case  on  the 
jury,  like  a  compact  suit  of  clothes  ;  showing  them  how  the 
patriot,  Barsad,  was  a  hired  spy  and  traitor,  an  unblushing 
trafficker  in  blood,  and  one  of  the  greatest  scoundrels  upon 
earth  since  accursed  Judas — which  he  certainly  did  look 
rather  like.  How  the  virtuous  servant,  Cly,  was  his  friend  • 
and  partner,  and  was  worthy  to  be  •  how  the  watchful  eyes  of 
ciiose  forgers  and  false  swearers  had  rested  on  the  prisoner 
as  a  victim,  because  some  family  affairs  in  France,  he  being 
of  French  extraction,  did  require  his  making  those  passages 
across  the  Channel — though  what  those  affairs  were,  a  con- 
sideration for  others  who  were  near  and  dear  to  him,  forbade 
him,  even  for  his  life,  to  disclose.  How  the  evidence  that  had 
been  warped  and  wrested  from  the  young  lady,  whose  anguish 
in  giving  it  they  had  witnessed,  came  to  nothing,  involving  the 
mere  little  innocent  gallantries  and  politenesses  likely  to  pass 
between  any  young  gentleman  and  young  lady  so  thrown  togeth- 
er ; — with  the  exception  of  that  reference  to  George  Washing- 
ton, which  was  altogether  too  extravagant  and  impossible  to  be 
regarded  in  any  other  light  than  as  a  monstrous  joke.  How  it 
would  be  a  weakness  in  the  government  to  break  down  in  this 
attempt  to  practice  for  popularity  on  the  lowest  national  anti- 
pathies and  fears,  and  therefore  Mr.  Attorney-General  had 
made  the  most  of  it ;  how,  nevertheless,  it  rested  upon  noth- 
ing, save  that  vile  and  infamous  character  of  evidence  too 
often  disfiguring  such  cases,  and  of  which  the  State  Trials  of 
this  country  were  full.  But,  there  my  Lord  interposed  (with 
as  grave  a  face  as  if  it  had  not  been  true),  saying  that  he 
could  not  sit  upon  that  Bench  and  suffer  those  allusions. 

Mr.  Stryver  then   called  his   few   witnesses,  and  Mr. 


0 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT. 


73 


Cruncher  had  next  to  attend  while  Mr.  Attorney-General 
turned  the  whole  suit  of  clothes  Mr.  Stryver  had  fitted  on  the 
jury,  inside  out ;  showing  how  Barsad  and  Cly  were  even  a 
hundred  times  better  than  he  had  thought  them,  and  the  pris- 
oner a  hundred  times  worse.  Lastly,  came  my  Lord  himself, 
turning  the  suit  of  clothes,  now  inside  out,  now  outside  in, 
but  on  the  whole  decidedly  trimming  and  shaping  them  into 
grave-clothes  for  the  prisoner. 

And  now,  the  jury  turned  to  consider,  and  the  great  flies 
swarmed  again. 

Mr.  Carton,  who  had  so  long  sat  looking  at  the  ceiling  of 
the  court,  changed  neither  his  place  nor  his  attitude,  even  in 
this  excitement.  While  his  learned  friend,  Mr.  Stryver,  mass- 
ing his  papers  before  him,  whispered  with  those  who  sat 
near,  and  from  time  to  time  glanced  anxiously  at  the  jury ; 
while  all  the  spectators  moved  more  or  less,  and  grouped 
themselves  anew  ;  while  even  my  Lord  himself  arose  from  his 
seat,  and  slowly  paced  up  and  down  his  platform,  not  unat- 
tended by  a  suspicion  in  the  minds  of  the  audience  that  his 
state  was  feverish  ;  this  one  man  sat  leaning  back,  with  his 
torn  gown  half  off  him,  his  untidy  wig  put  on  just  as  it  had 
happened  to  light  on  his  head  after  its  removal,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  and  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling  as  they  had  been  all 
day.  Something  especially  reckless  in  his  demeanor,  not  only 
gave  him  a  disreputable  look,  but  so  diminished  the  strong 
resemblance  he  undoubtedly  bore  to  the  prisoner  (which  his 
momentary  earnestness,  when  they  were  compared  together, 
had  strengthened),  that  many  of  the  lookers-on,  taking  note 
of  him  nowj  said  to  one  another  they  would  hardly  have 
thought  the  two  were  so  alike.  Mr.  Cruncher  made  the 
observation  to  his  next  neighbor,  and  added,  "  I'd  hold  half 
a  guinea  that  he  don't  get  no  law-work  to  do.  Don't  look 
like  the  sort  of  one  to  get  any,  do  he  }  " 

Yet,  this  Mr.  Carton  took  in  more  of  the  details  of  the 
scene  than  he  appeared  to  take  in  ;  for  now,  when  Miss 
Manette's  head  dropped  upon  her  father's  breast,  he  was  the 
first  to  see  it,  and  to  say  audibly :  Officer !  look  to  that 
young  lady.  Help  the  gentleman  to  take  her  out.  Don't 
you  see  she  will  fall  !  " 

There  was  much  commiseration  for  her  as  she  was  removed, 
and  much  sympathy  with  her  father.  It  had  evidently  been 
a  great  distress  to  him,  to  have  the  days  of  his  imprisonment 
recalled.    He  had  shown  strong  internal  agitation  when  ha 


74 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


was  questioned,  and  that  pondering  or  brooding  look  which 
made  him  old,  had  been  upon  him,  like  a  heavy  cloud,  ever 
since.  As  he  passed  out,  the  jury,  who  had  turned  back  and 
paused  a  moment,  spoke,  through  their  foreman. 

They  were  not  agreed,  and  wished  to  retire.  My  Lord 
(perhaps  with  George  Washington  on  his  mind)  showed  some 
surprise  that  they  were  not  agreed,  but  signified  his  pleasure 
that  they  should  retire  under  watch  and  ward,  and  retired 
himself.  The.  trial  had  lasted  all  day,  and  the  lamps  in  the 
court  were  now  being  lighted.  It  began  to  be  rumored  that 
the  jury  would  be  out  a  long  while.  The  spectators  dropped 
off  to  get  refreshment,  and  the  prisoner  withdrew  to  the  back 
of  the  dock,  and  sat  down. 

Mr.  Lorry,  who  had  gone  out  when  the  young  lady  and 
her  father  went  out,  now  reappeared,  and  beckoned  to  Jerr}^ : 
who,  in  the  slackened  interest,  could  easily  get  near  him. 

"  Jerry,  if  you  wish  to  take  something  to  eat,  you  can. 
But,  keep  in  the  way.  You  will  be  sure  to  hear  when  the 
jury  come  in.  Don't  be  a  moment  behind  them,  for  I  want 
you  to  take  the  verdict  back  to  the  bank.  You  are  the 
quickest  messenger  I  know,  and  will  get  to  Temple  Bar  long 
before  I  can." 

Jerry  had  just  enough  forehead  to  knuckle,  and  he 
knuckled  it  in  acknowledgment  of  this  communication  and  a 
shilling.  Mr.  Carton  came  up  at  the  moment,  and  touched 
Mr.  Lorry  on  the  arm. 

"  How  is  the  young  lady  ?  " 

"  She  is  greatly  distressed  ;  but  her  father  is  comforting 
her,  and  she  feels  the  better  for  being  out  of  court.'' 

I'll  tell  the  prisoner  so.  It  won't  do  for  a  respectable 
bank  gentleman  like  you,  to  be  seen  speaking  to  him  publicly, 
you  know." 

Mr.  Lorry  reddened  as  if  he  were  conscious  of  having 
debated  the  point  in  his  mind,  and  Mr.  Carton  made  his  way 
to  the  outside  of  the  bar.  The  way  out  of  court  lay  in  that 
direction,  and  Jerry  followed  him,  all  eyes,  ears,  and  spikes. 

"  Mr.  Darnay  !  " 

The  prisoner  came  forward  directly. 

*^  You  will  naturally  be  anxious  to  hear  of  the  witness, 
Miss  Manette.  She  will  do  very  well.  You  have  seen  the 
worst  ot  her  agitation." 

"  I  am  deeply  sorry  to  have  been  the  cause  of  it.  Could 
you  tell  her  so  for  me  with  my  fervent  acknowledgments  ?  " 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT, 


75 


"  Yes,  I  could.    I  will,  if  you  ask  it." 

Mr.  Carton's  manner  was  so  careless  as  to  be  almost  in« 
Solent.  He  stood,  half  turned  from  the  prisoner,  lounging 
with  his  elbow  against  the  bar. 

"  I  do  ask  it.    Accept  my  cordial  thanks." 

"What,"  said  Carton,  still  only  half  turned  towards  him. 
do  you  expect,  Mr.  Darnay  ?  " 

"  The  worst." 

"  It's  the  wisest  thing  to  expect,  and  the  likeliest.  But  I 
think  their  withdrawing  is  in  your  favor." 

Loitering  on  the  way  out  of  court  not  being  allowed,  Jerry 
heard  no  more  :  but  left  them — so  like  each  other  in  feature, 
so  unlike  each  other  in  manner — standing  side  by  side,  both 
reflected  in  the  glass  above  them. 

An  hour  and  a  half  limped  heavily  away  in  the  thief-and- 
rascal  crowded  passages  below,  even  though  assisted  off  with 
mutton  pies  and  ale.  The  hoarse  messenger,  uncomfortably 
seated  on  a  form  after  taking  that  refectioi),  had  dropped 
into  a  doze,  when  a  loud  murmur  and  a  rapid  tide  of  people 
setting  up  the  stairs  that  led  to  the  court,  carried  him  along 
with  them. 

"  Jerry  !  Jerry ! "  Mr.  Lorry  was  already  calling  at  the 
door  when  he  got  there. 

"  Here,  sir  !  It's  a  fight  to  get  back  again.  Here  I  am, 
sir  !  " 

Mr.  Lorry  handed  him  a  paper  through  the  throng. 
Quick  !    Have  you  got  it  ?  " 
"Yes,  sir.?" 

Hastily  written  on  the  paper  was  the  word  "  Acquitted." 

"  If  you  had  sent  the  message,  '  Recalled  to  Life,'  again," 
muttered  Jerry,  as  he  turned,  "  I  should  have  known  what  you 
meant,  this  time." 

He  had  no  opportunity  of  saying,  or  so  much  as  thinking, 
anything  else,  until  he  was  clear  of  the  Old  Bailey  ;  for,  the 
crowd  came  pouring  out  with  a  vehemence  that  nearly  took 
him  off  his  legs,  and  a  loud  buzz  swept  into  the  street  as  il 
the  baffled  blye-flies  were  dispersing  in  search  of  other  car 
rion. 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CONGRATULATORY. 

From  the  dimly-lighted  passages  of  the  court,  the  la-^t 
sediment  of  the  human  stew  that  had  been  boiling  there  all 
day,  was  straining  off,  when  Doctor  Manette,  Lucie  Manette, 
his  daughter,  Mr.  Lorry,  the  solicitor  for  the  defence,  and  its 
counsel,  Mr.  Stryver,  stood  gathered  round  Mr.  Charles  Dar- 
nay — just  released — congratulating  him  on  his  escape  from 
death. 

It  would  have  been  difficult  by  a  far  brighter  light,  to 
recognize  in  Doctor  Manette,  intellectual  of  face  and  upright 
of  bearing,  the  shoemaker  of  the  garret  in  Paris.  Yet,  no  one 
could  have  looked  at  him  twice,  without  looking  again  :  even 
though  the  opportunity  of  observation  had  not  extended  to 
the  mournful  cadence  of  his  low  grave  voice,  and  to  the  ab- 
straction that  overclouded^  him  fitfully,  without  any  apparent 
reason.  While  one  external  cause,  and  that  a  reference  to 
his  long  lingering  agony,  would  always — as  on  the  trial — 
evoke  this  condition  from  the  depths  of  his  soul,  it  was  also 
in  its  nature  to  arise  of  itself,  and  to  draw  a  gloom  over  him, 
as  incomprehensible  to  those  unacquainted  with  his  story  as 
if  they  had  seen  the  shadow  of  the  actual  Bastille  thrown 
upon  him  by  a  summer  sun,  when  the  substance  was  three 
hundred  miles  away. 

Only  his  daughter  had  the  power  of  charming  this  black 
brooding  from  his  mind.  She  was  the  golden  thread  that 
united  him  to  a  Past  beyond  his  misery,  and  to  a  Present 
beyond  his  misery  :  and  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  light  oi 
her  face,  the  touch  of  her  hand,  had  a  strong  beneficial  influ= 
ence  with  him  almost  always.  Not  absolutely  always,  for  she 
could  recall  some  occasions  on  which  her  power  had  failed  ; 
but  they  were  few  and  slight,  and  she  believed  them  over. 

Mr,  Darnay  had  kissed  her  hand  fervently  and  gratefully, 
and  had  turned  to  Mr.  Str3^ver,  whom  he  warmly  thanked. 
Mr.  Stryver,  a  man  of  little  more  than  thirty,  but  looking  twenty 
years  older  than  he  was,  stout,  loud,  red,  bluff,  and  free  from 
any  drawback  of  delicacy,  had  a  pushing  way  of  shouldering 


CONG R A  TULA  TOR  Y. 


77 


himself  (morally  and  physically)  into  companies  and  conver- 
sation's, that  argued  well  for  his  shouldering  his  way  up  in 
life. 

He  still  had  his  wig  and  gown  on,  and  he  said,  squaring 
himself  at  his  late  client  to  that  degree  that  he  squeezed  the 
innocent  Mr.  Lorry  clean  out  of  the  group  :  "  I  am  glad  to 
have  brought  you  off  with  honor,  Mr.  Darnay.  It  was  an  in- 
famous prosecution,  grossly  infamous  ;  but  not  the  less  likely 
to  succeed  on  that  account." 

"  You  have  laid  me  under  an  obligation  to  you  for  life — in 
two  senses,"  said  his  late  client,  taking  his  hand", 

I  have  done  my  best  for  you,  Mr.  Darnay  ;  and  my  best 
is  as  good  as  another  man's,  I  believe." 

It  clearly  being  incumbent  on  some  one  to  say,  "  Much 
better,"  Mr.  Lorry  said  it ;  perhaps  not  quite  disinterestedly, 
but  with  the  interested  object  of  squeezing  himself  back 
again. 

You  think  so  ?  "  said  Mr.  Stryver.  Well  !  you  have 
been  present  all  day,  and  you  ought  to  know.  You  are  a  man 
of  business,  too." 

*^And  as  such,"  quoth  Mr.  Lorry,  w4iom  the  counsel 
learned  in  the  law  had  now  shouldered  back  into  the  group, 
just  as  he  had  previously  shouldered  him  out  of  it — "  as  such 
I  will  appeal  to  Doctor  Manette,  to  break  up  this  conference 
and  order  us  all  to  our  homes.  Miss  Lucie  looks  ill,  Mr. 
Darnay  has  had  a  terrible  day,  we  are  worn  out." 

"  Speak  for  yourself,  Mr.  Lorry,"  said  Stryver  ;  I  have  a 
night's  work  to  do  yet.    Speak  for  yourself." 

"  1  speak  for  myself,"  answered  Mr.  Lorry,  "  and  for  Mr. 

Darnay,  and  for  Miss  Lucie,  and  Miss  Lucie,  do  you  not 

think  I  may  speak  for  us  all  ?  "  He  asked  her  the  question 
pointedly,  and  with  a  glance  at  her  father. 

His  face  had  become  frozen,  as  it  were,  in  a  very  curious 
look  at  Darnay :  an  intent  look,  deepening  into  a  frown  of 
dislike  and  distrust  not  even  unmixed  with  fear.    With  this 
strange  expression  on  him  his  thoughts  had  wandered  away. 
My  father,"  said  Lucie,  softly  laying  her  hand  on  his. 

He  slowly  shook  the  shadow  off,  and  turned  to  her. 

"  Shall  we  go  home,  my  father  t  " 

With  a  long  breath,  he  answered  "Yes." 

The  friends  of  the  acquitted  prisoner  had  dispersed,  unde^ 
the  impression — which  he  himself  had  originated — that  he 
would  not  be  released  that  night.    The  lights  were  nearly  all 


78 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


extinguished  in  the  passages,  the  iron  gates  were  being  close(S 
with  a  jar  and  a  rattle,  and  the  dismal  place  was  deserted 
until  to-morrow  morning's  interest  of  gallows,  pillory,  whip- 
ping-post, and  branding-iron,  should  re-people  it.  Walking 
between  her  father  and  Mr.  Darnay,  Lucie  Manette  passed 
into  the  open  air.  A  hackney  coach  was  called,  and  the 
father  and  daughter  departed  in  it. 

Mr.  Stryver  had  left  them  in  the  passages,  to  shoulder  his 
way  back  to  the  robing-room.  Another  person,  who  had  not 
Joined  the  group,  or  interchanged  a  word  with  any  one  of 
them,  but  who  had  been  leaning  against  the  wall  where  its 
shadow  was  darkest,  had  silently  strolled  out  after  the  rest, 
and  had  looked  on  until  the  coach  drove  away.  He  now 
stepped  up  to  where  Mr.  Lorry  and  Mr.  Darnay  stood  upon 
the  pavement. 

"  So,  Mr.  Lorry  !  Men  of  business  may  speak  to  Mr. 
Darnay  now  " 

Nobody  had  made  any  acknowledgment  of  Mr,  Carton's 
part  in  the  day's  proceedings  ;  nobody  had  known  of  it.  He 
was  unrobed,  and  was  none  the  better  for  it  in  appearance. 

"  If  you  knew  what  a  conflicc  goes  on  in  the  business 
mind,  when  the  business  mind  is  divided  between  good- 
natured  impulse  and  business  appearances,  you  would  be 
amused,  Mr.  Darnay." 

Mr.  Lorry  reddened,  and  said,  warmly,  "  You  have  men- 
tioned that  before,  sir.  We  men  of  business,  who  serve  a 
House,  are  not  our  own  masters.  We  have  to  think  of  the 
House  more  than  ourselves." 

know,  /  know,"  rejoined  Mr.  Carton,  carelessly. 
"  Don't  be  nettled,  Mr.  Lorry.  You  are  as  good  as  another, 
I  have  no  doubt :  better,  I  dare  say." 

"And  indeed,  sir,"  pursued  Mr.  Lorry,  not  minding  him, 
"  I  really  don't  know  what  you  have  to  do  with  the  matter. 
If  you'll  excuse  me,  as  very  much  your  elder,  for  saying  so,  I 
really  don't  know  that  it  is  your  business." 

"  Business  !    Bless  you,  /  have  no  business,"  said  Ml 
Carton. 

"It  is  a  pity  you  have  not,  sir." 
"  I  think  so,  too." 

"If  you  had,"  pursued  Mr.  Lorry,  "perhaps  you  would 
attend  to  it." 

"  Lord  love  you,  no  ! — I  shouldn't,"  said  Mr.  Carton. 

"  Well,  sir !"  cried  Mr.  Lorry,  thoroughly  heated  by  his 


CO  NCR  A  TULA  TOR  V. 


79 


indifference,  "  business  is  a  very  good  thing,  and  a  very  re- 
spectable  thing.  And,  sir,  if  business  imposes  its  restraints 
and  its  silences  and  impediments,  Mr.  Darnay  as  a  young 
gentleman  of  generosity  knows  how  to  make  allowance  foi 
that  circumstance.  Mr.  Darnay,  good-night,  God  bless  you, 
sir  !  I  hope  you  have  been  this  day  preserved  for  a  prosper- 
ous happy  life — Chair  there  !  " 

Perhaps  a  little  angry  with  himself,  as  well  as  with  the 
barrister,  Mr.  Lorry  bustled  into  the  chair,  and  was  carried  off 
to  Tellson's.  Carton,  who  smelt  of  port  wine,  and  did  not 
appear  to  be  quite  sober,  laughed  then,  and  turned  to  Darnay  : 
This  is  a  strange  chance  that  throws  you  and  me  to- 
gether. This  must  be  a  strange  night  to  you,  standing  alone 
here  with  your  counterpart  on  these  street  stones  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  seem  yet,'^  returned  Charles  Darnay,  to  be- 
long to  this  world  again. 

"  I  don't  wonder  at  it ;  it's  not  so  long  since  you  were 
pretty  far  advanced  on  your  way  to  another.  You  speak 
faintly." 

"  I  begin  to  think  I  am  faint." 

"  Then  why  the  devil  don't  you  dine  }  I  dined,  myself, 
while  those  numskulls  were  deliberating  which  world  you 
should  belong  to — this,  or  some  other.  Let  me  show  you  the 
nearest  tavern  to  dine  well  at." 

Drawing  his  arm  through  his  own,  he  took  him  down  Lud- 
gate-hill  to  Fleet-street,  and  so,  up  a  covered  way,  into  a  tav- 
ern. Here,  they  were  shown  into  a  little  room,  where  Charles 
Darnay  was  soon  recruiting  his  strength  with  a  good  plain 
dinner  and  good  wine  :  while  Carton  sat  opposite  to  him  at 
the  same  table,  with  his  separate  bottle  of  port  before  him, 
and  his  fully  half-insolent  manner  upon  him. 

"  Do  you  feel,  yet,  that  you  belong  to  this  terrestrial  scheme 
again,  Mr.  Darnay.^  " 

"  I  am  frightfully  confused  regarding  time  and  place  ;  but 
I  am  so  far  mended  as  to  feel  that." 

"  It  must  be  an  immense  satisfaction  !  " 

He  said  it  bitterly,  and  filled  up  his  glass  again  :  which 
was  a  large  one. 

"  As  to  me,  the  greatest  desire  I  have,  is  to  forget  that  I 
belong  to  it.  It  has  no  good  in  it  for  me — except  wine  like 
this — nor  I  for  it.  So  we  are  not  much  alike  in  that  particu- 
lar. Indeed,  I  begin  to  think  we  are  no^  ^nch  alike  in  any 
particular,  you  and  I."  • 


8o  A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

Confused  by  the  emotion  of  the  day,  and  feeling  his  being 
there  with  this  Double  of  coarse  deportment,  to  be  like  a 
dream,  Charles  Darnay  was  at  a  loss  how  to  answer  ;  finally; 
answered  not  at  all. 

"  Now  your  dinner  is  done,"  Carton  presently  said,  "why 
don't  you  call  a  health,  Mr.  Darney  ;  why  don't  you  give  your 
toast  ?  " 

"  What  health  ?    What  toast  ?  " 

"  Why,  it's  on  the  tip  of  your  tongue.  It  ought  to  be,  it 
must  be,  I'll  swear  it's  there." 

"  Miss  Manette,  then  !  " 
Miss  Manette,  then!  " 

Looking  his  companion  full  in  the  face  while  he  drank 
the  toast.  Carton  flung  his  glass  over  his  shoulder  against  the 
wall,  where  it  shivered  to  pieces ;  then  rang  the  bell,  and 
ordered  in  another. 

"  That's  a  fair  young  lady  to  hand  to  a  coach  in  the  dark, 
Mr.  Darnay  ! "  he  said,  filling  his  new  goblet. 

A  slight  frown  and  a  laconic  "  Yes,"  were  the  answer. 

"  That's  a  fair  young  lady  to  be  pitied  by  and  wept  for  by  ! 
How  does  it  feel  ?  Is  it  worth  being  tried  for  one's  life,  to  be 
the  object  of  such  sympathy  and  compassion,  Mr.  Darnay  ? " 

Again  Darnay  answered  not  a  word. 

"  She  was  mightily  pleased  to  have  your  message,  when  I 
gave  it  her.  Not  that  she  showed  she  was  pleased,  but  I  sup- 
pose she  was." 

The  allusion  served  as  a  timely  reminder  to  Darnay  that 
this  disagreeable  companion  had,  of  his  own  free  will,  assisted 
him  in  the  strait  of  the  day.  He  turned  the  dialogue  to  that 
point,  and  thanked  him  for  it. 

"  I  neither  want  any  thanks,  nor  merit  any,"  was  the  care- 
less rejoinder.  "  It  was  nothing  to  do,  in  the  first  place  ;  and 
I  don't  know  why  I  did  it,  in  the  second.  Mr.  Darnay,  let 
me  ask  you  a  question." 

"Willingly,  and  a  small  return  for  your  good  offices." 

"  Do  you  think  I  particularly  like  you  ?  " 

"  Really,  Mr.  Carton,"  returned  the  other,  oddly  discon- 
certed, "  I  have  not  asked  myself  the  question." 

"  But  ask  yourself  the  question  now." 

"You  have  acted  as  if  you  do  ;  but  I  don't  think  you  do.'' 

"  /  don't  think  I  do,"  said  Carton.  "  I  begin  to  have  a 
very  good  opinion  of  your  understanding." 

"  Nevertheless,"  pursued  Darnay,  rising  to  ring  the  bell, 


CONGRA  TULA  TOR  Y, 


8l 


tfiere  is  nothing  in  that,  I  hope,  to  prevent  my  calUng  the 
reckoning,  and  our  parting  without  ill-blood  on  either  side." 

Carton  rejoining,  "  Nothing  in  life  ! Darnay  rang.  "  Do 
you  call  the  whole  reckoning  ?  "  said  Carton.  On  his  answer- 
ing in  the  affirmative,  "  Then  bring  me  another  pint  of  this 
same  wine,  drawer,  and  come  and  wake  me  at  ten.'^ 

The  bill  being  paid,  Charles  Darnay  rose  and  wished  him 
good-night.     Without  returning  the  wish.  Carton  rose  too, 
with  something  of  a  threat  of  defiance   in  his  manner,  and 
said,  "  A  last  word,  Mr.  Darnay  ;  you  think  I  am  drunk  ? 
I  think  you  have  been  drinking,  Mr.  Carton." 

"Think  ?    You  know  I  have  been  drinking." 

"  Since  I  must  say  so,  I  know  it." 

"  Then  you  shall  likewise  know  why,  I  am  a  disappointed 
drudge,  sir.  I  care  for  no  man  on  earth,  and  no  man  on. 
earth  cares  for  me." 

^'  Much  to  be  regretted.  You  might  have  used  your 
talents  better." 

May  be  so,  Mr.  Darnay  ;  may  be  not.  Don't  let  your 
sober  face  elate  you,  however;  you  don't  know  what  it  may 
come  to.    Good  night !  " 

When  he  was  left  alone,  this  strange  being  took  up  a  can- 
dle, went  to  a  glass  that  hung  against  the  wall,  and  surveyed 
himself  minutely  in  it. 

"  Do  you  particularly  like  the  man  1  "  he  muttered,  at  his 
own  image  ;  why  should  you  particularly  like  a  man  who  re- 
sembles  you  ?  There  is  nothing  in  you  to  like  \  you  know 
that.  Ah,  confound  you  !  What  a  change  you  have  made  in 
yourself  !  A  good  reason  for  taking  to  a  man,  that  he  shows 
you  what  you  have  fallen  away  from,  and  what  you  might  have 
been  !  Change  places  with  him,  and  would  you  have  been 
looked  at  by  those  blue  eyes  as  he  was,  and  commiserated  by 
that  agitated  face  as  he  was  ?  Come  on,  and  have  it  out  in 
plain  v/ords  !    You  hate  the  fellow." 

He  resorted  to  his  pint  of  wine  for  consolation,  drank  it 
all  in  a  few  minutes,  and  fell  asleep  on  his  arms,  with  his  hair 
straggling  over  the  table,  and  a  long  winding-sheet  in  the  can- 
dle dripping  dovv^n  upon  him. 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  JACKAL. 

Those  were  drinking  days,  and  most  men  drank  hard. 
So  very  great  is  the  improvement  Time  has  brought  about  in 
such  habits,  that  a  moderate  statement  of  the  quantity  of  wine 
and  punch  which  one  man  would  swallow  in  the  course  of  a 
night,  without  any  detriment  to  his  reputation  as  a  perfect 
gentleman,  would  seem,  in  these  days,  a  ridiculous  exaggera- 
tion. The  learned  profession  of  the  law  was  certainly  not  be- 
hind any  other  learned  profession  in  its  Bacchanalian  pro- 
pensities ;  neither  was  Mr.  Stryver,  already  fast  shouldering 
his  way  to  a  large  and  lucrative  practice,  behind  his  compeers 
in  this  particular,  any  more  than  in  the  drier  parts  of  the 
legal  race. 

A  favorite  at  the  Old  Bailey,  and  eke  at  the  Sessions,  Mr. 
Stryver  had  begun  cautiously  to  hew  away  the  lower  staves  of 
the  ladder  on  which  he  mounted.  Sessions  and  Old  Bailey 
had  now  to  summon  their  favorite,  specially,  to  their  longing 
arms  ;  and  shouldering  itself  towards  the  visage  of  the  Lord 
Chief  Justice  in  the  Court  of  King's  Bench,  the  florid  coun- 
tenance of  Mr.  Stryver  might  be  daily  seen,  bursting  out  of 
the  bed  of  wigs,  like  a  great  sunflower  pushing  its  way  at  the 
sun  from  among  a  rank  gardenful  of  flaring  companions. 

It  had  once  been  noted  at  the  Bar,  that  while  Mr.  Stryver 
was  a  glib  man,  and  an  unscrupulous,  and  a  ready,  and  a  bold, 
he  had  not  that  faculty  of  extracting  the  essence  from  a  heap 
of  statements,  which  is  among  the  most  striking  and  necessary 
of  the  advocate's  accomplishments.  But,  a  remarkable  im- 
provement came  upon  him  as  to  this.  The  more  business  he 
got,  the  greater  his  power  seemed  to  grow  of  getting  at-  its 
pith  and  marrow;  and  however  late  at  night  he  sat  carousing 
with  Sy  Iney  Carton,  he  always  had  his  points  at  his  fingers' 
ends  in  the  morning. 

Sydney  Carton,  idlest  and  most  unpromising  of  men,  was 
Stryver's  great  ally.  What  the  two  drank  together,  between 
Hilary  Term  and  Michaelmas,  might  have  floated  a  king's 
ship.  Stryver  never  had  a  case  in  hand,  anywhere,  but  Carton 
was  there,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  staring  at  the  ceiling  of 


THE  JACKAL. 


83 


the  court ;  they  went  the  same  Circuit,  and  even  there  they  pro- 
longed their  usual  orgies  late  into  the  night,  and  Carton  was 
rumored  to  be  seen  at  broad  day,  going  home  stealthily  and 
unsteadily  to  his  lodgings,  like  a  dissipated  cat.  At  last,  it 
began  to  get  about,  among  such  as  were  interested  in  the  mat- 
ter, that  although  Sydney  Carton  would  never  be  a  lion,  he 
was  an  amazingly  good  jackal,  and  that  he  rendered  suit  and 
service  to  Stryver  in  that  humble  capacity. 

"  Ten  o'clock,  sir,"  said  the  man  at  the  tavern,  whom  he 
had  charged  to  wake  him — ten  o'clock,  sir." 

"  Whafs  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Ten  o'clock,  sir." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?    Ten  o'clock  at  night  " 

"  Yes,  sir.    Your  honor  told  me  to  call  you." 

"  Oh  !    I  remember.    Very  well,  very  well." 

"  After  a  few  dull  efforts  to  get  to  sleep  again,  which  the 
man  dexterously  combated  by  stirring  the  fire  continuously 
for  five  minut.es,  he  got  up,  tossed  his  hat  on,  and  walked 
out.  He  turned  into  the  Temple,  p.nd,  having  revived  him- 
self by  twice  pacing  the  pavements  of  King's  bench-walk  and 
Paper-buildings,  turned  into  the  Stryver  chambers. 

The  Stryver  clerk,  who  never  assisted  at  these  conferences, 
had  gone  home,  and  the  Stryver  principal  opened  the  door. 
He  had  his  slippers  on,  and  a  loose  bed-gown,  and  his  throat 
was  bare  for  his  greater  ease.  He  had  that  rather  wild, 
strained,  seared  marking  about  the  eyes,  which  may  be  ob- 
served in  all  free  livers  of  his  class,  from  the  portrait  of  Jeff- 
ries downward,  and  which  can  be  traced,  under  various  dis- 
guises of  Art,  through  the  portraits  of  every  Drinking  Age. 
You  are  a  little  late.  Memory,"  said  Stryver. 

"  About  the  usual  time ;  it  may  be  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
later." 

They  went  into  a  dingy  room  lined  with  books  and  littered 
with  papers,  where  there  was  a  blazing  fire.  A  kettle  steamed 
upon  the  hob,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  wreck  of  papers  a  tabic 
shone,  with  plenty  of  wine  upon  it,  and  brandy,  and  rum,  and 
sugar,  and  lemons. 

"  You  have  had  your  bottle,  I  perceive,  Sydney." 

"  Two  to-night,  I  think.  I  have  been  dining  with  the 
day's  client ;  or  seeing  him  dine — it's  all  one  !  " 

*^  That  was  a  rare  point,  Sydney,  that  you  brought  to  bear 
upon  the  identification.  How  did  you  come  by  it  ?  When 
did  it  strike  you  ?  " 


84 


4  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


I  thought  he  was  rather  a  handsome  fellow,  and  I 
thought  I  should  have  been  much  the  same  sort  of  fellow,  if  I 
had  had  any  luck.'^ 

Mr.  Stryver  laughed  till  he  shook  his  precocious  paunch. 
You  and  your  luck,  Sydney  !    Get  to  work,  get  to  work." 

Sullenly  enough,  the  jackal  loosened  his  dress,  went  into 
an  adjoining  room,  and  came  back  with  a  large  jug  of  cold 
water,  a  basin,  and  a  towel  or  two.  Steeping  the  towels  in 
the  water,  and  partially  wringing  them  out,  he  folded  them  on 
his  head  in  a  manner  hideous  to  behold,  sat  down  at  the 
table,  and  said,  "  Now  I  am  ready  !  " 

"Not  much  boiling  down  to  be  done  to-night.  Memory," 
said  Mr.  Stryver,  gayly,  as  he  looked  among  his  papers. 

"  How  much  ?  " 

"  Only  two  sets  of  them." 

"  Give  me  the  worst  first." 

"There  they  are,  Sydney.    Fire  away  !  " 

The  lion  then  composed  himself  on  his  back  on  a  sofa  on 
one  side  of  the  drinking-table,  while  the  jackal  sat  at  his  own 
paper-bestrewn  table  proper,  on  the  other  side  of  it,  with  the 
bottles  and  glasses  ready  to  his  hand.  Both  resorted  to  the 
drinking-table  without  stint,  but  each  in  a  different  way  ;  the 
lion  for  the  most  part  reclining  with  his  hands  in  his  waist- 
band, looking  at  the  fire,  or  occasionally  flirting  with  some 
lighter  document ;  the  jackal,  with  knitted  brows  and  intent 
face,  so  deep  in  his  task,  that  his  eyes  did  not  even  follow  the 
hand  he  stretched  out  for  his  glass — which  often  groped  about, 
for  a  minute  or  more,  before  it  found  the  glass  for  his  lips. 
Two  or  three  times,  the  matter  in  hand  became  so  knotty, 
that  the  jackal  found  it  imperative  on  him  to  get  up,  and 
steep  his  towels  anew.  From  these  pilgrimages  to  the  jug 
and  basin,  he  returned  with  such  eccentricities  of  damp  head- 
gear as  no  words  can  describe  ;  which  were  made  the  more 
ludicrous  by  his  anxious  gravity. 

At  length  the  jackal  had  got  together  a  compact  repast  for 
the  lion,  and  proceeded  to  offer  it  to  him.  The  lion  took  it 
with  care  and  caution,  made  his  selections  from  it,  and  his 
remarks  upon  it,  and  the  jackal  assisted  both.  When  the 
repast  was  fully  discussed,  the  lion  put  his  hands  in  his  waist- 
band again,  and  lay  down  to  meditate.  The  jackal  then  in- 
vigorated himself  with  a  bumper  for  his  throttle,  and  a  fresh 
application  to  his  head,  and  applied  himself  to  the  collection 
of  a  second  meal ;  this  was  administered  to  the  lion  in  the 


THE  JACKAL. 


85 


same  manner,  and  was  not  dispose^  of  until  the  clocks  struck 
three  in  the  morning. 

And  now  we  have  done,  Sydney,  fill  a  bumper  of  punch," 
said  Mr.  Stryver. 

The  jackal  removed  the  towels  from  his  head,  which  had 
been  steaming  again,  shook  himself,  yawned,  shivered^  and 
complied. 

You  were  very  sound,  Sydney,  in  the'  matter  of  those 
crown  witnesses  to-day.    Every  question  told." 
^'  I  always  am  sound ;  am  I  not  1  " 

"  I  don't  gainsay  it.  What  has  roughened  your  temper  ? 
Put  some  punch  to  it  and  smooth  it  again." 

With  a  deprecatory  grunt,  the  jackal  again  complied. 

"  The  old  Sydney  Carton  of  old  Shrewsbury  School,"  said 
Stryver,  nodding  his  head  over  him  as  he  reviewed  him  in  the 
present  and  the  past,  the  old  seesaw  Sydney.  Up  one 
minute  and  down  the  next ;  now  in  spirits  and  now  in  de- 
spondency ! " 

"  Ah  !  "  returned  the  other,  sighing  :  "  yes  !  The  same 
Sydney,  with  the  same  luck.  Even  then,  I  did  exercises  for 
other  boys,  and  seldom  did  my  own." 

"  And  why  not  ?  " 

"  God  knows.    It  was  my  way,  I  suppose." 

He  sat,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  legs  stretched 
out  before  him,  looking  at  the  fire. 

"Carton,"  said  his  friend,  squaring  himself  at  him  with  a 
bullying  air,  as  if  the  fire-grate  had  been  the  furnace  in  which 
sustained  endeavor  was  forged,  and  the  one  delicate  thing  to 
be  done  for  the  old  Sydney  Carton  of  old  Shrewsbury  School 
was  to  shoulder  him  into  it,  "  your  way  is,  and  always  was,  a 
lame  way.  You  summon  no  energy  and  purpose.  Look  at 
me." 

"  Oh,  botheration  !  "  returned  Sydney,  with  a  lighter  and 
more  good-humored  laugh,  "  don't  you  be  moral !  " 

How  have  I  done  what  I  have  done  } "  said  Stryver  ^ 
"  how  do  I  do  what  I  do  ? " 

"  Partly  through  paying  me  to  help  you,  I  suppose.  But 
it's  not  worth  your  while  to  apostrophize  me,  or  the  air,  about 
it ;  what  you  want  to  do,  you  do.  You  were  always  in  the 
front  rank,  and  I  was  always  behind." 

"  I  had  to  get  into  the  front  rank  ;  I  was  not  born  there, 
was  I  ? " 

"  I  was  not  present  at  the  ceremony  ;  but  my  opinion  m 


86 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


you  were,"  said  Carton.  At  this,  he  laughed  again,  and  thej 
both  laughed. 

"  Before  Shrewsbury,  and  at  Shrewsbury,  and  ever  since 
Shrewsbury,"  pursued  Carton,  ^'you  have  fallen  into  your 
rank,  and  I  have  fallen  into  mine.  Even  when  we  were  fellow- 
students  in  the  Student-Quarter  of  Paris,  picking  up  French, 
and  French  law,  and  other  French  crumbs  that  we  didn't  get 
much  good  of,  you  were  always  somewhere,  and  I  was  always 
— nowhere." 

"  And  whose  fault  was  thiit  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  am  not  sure  that  it  was  not  yours.  You 
were  always  driving  and  riving  and  shouldering  and  pressing, 
to  that  restless  degree  that  I  had  no  chance  for  my  life  but  in 
rust  and  repose.  It's  a  gloomy  thing,  however,  to  talk  about 
one's  own  past,  with  the  day  breaking.  Turn  me  in  some  other 
direction  before  I  go." 

"  Well  then !  Pledge  me  to  the  pretty  witness,"  said 
Stryver,  holding  up  his  glass.  "  Are  you  turned  in  a  pleasant 
direction  ? " 

Apparently  not,  for  he  became  gloomy  agam. 

"  Pretty  witness,"  he  muttered,  looking  down  into  his 
glass.  I  have  had  enough  of  witnesses  to-day  and  to-night ; 
whose's  your  pretty  witness  ?  " 

''The  picturesque  doctor's  daughter,  Miss  Manette." 

"  She  pretty  ?  " 

"  Is  she  not  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Why,  man  alive,  she  was  the  admiration  of  the  whole 
Court ! " 

"  Rot  the  admiration  of  the  whole  Court !  Who  made  the 
Old  Bailey  a  judge  of  beauty  .'^  She  was  a  golden-haired 
doll  !  " 

^'  Do  you  know,  Sidney,"  said  Mr.  Stryver,  looking  at  him 
with  sharp  eyes,  and  slowly  drawing  a  hand  across  his  florid 
face  :  ''  do  you  know  I  rather  thought,  at  the  time,  that  you 
sympathized  with  the  golden-haired  doll,  and  were  quick  to 
see  what  happened  to  the  golden-haired  doll  " 

"  Quick  to  see  what  happened  !  If  a  girl,  doll  or  no  doll, 
swoons  within  a  yard  or  two  of  a  man's  nose,  he  can  see  it 
without  a  perspective-glass.  I  pledge  you,  but  I  deny  the 
beauty.    And  now  I'll  have  no  more  drink  ;  I'll  get  to  bed." 

Whea  his  host  followed  him  out  on  the  staircase  with  a 
candle,  to  light  him  down  the  stairs,  the  day  was  coldly  look- 


HUNDREDS  OF  PEOPLE. 


87 


ing  in  through  its  grimy  windows.  When  he  got  out  of  the 
house,  the  air  was  cold  and  sad,  the  dull  sky  overcast,  the 
river  dark  and  dim,  the  whole  scene  like  a  lifeless  desert. 
And  wreaths  of  dust  were  spinning  round  and  round  before 
the  morning  blast,  as  if  the  desert-sand  had  risen  far  away, 
and  the  first  spray  of  it  in  its  advance  had  begun  to  over- 
whelm the  city. 

Waste  forces  within  him,  and  a  desert  all  around,  this  man 
stood  still  on  his  way  across  a  silent  terrace,  and  saw  for  a 
moment,  lying  in  the  wilderness  before  him,  a  mirage  of  hon 
orable  ambition,  self-denial,  and  perseverance.  In  the  fair 
city  of  this  vision,  there  were  airy  galleries  from  which  the 
loves  and  graces  looked  upon,  him,  gardens  in  which  the  fruit 
of  life  hung  ripening,  waters  of  Hope  that  sparkled  in  his 
sight.'  A  moment,  and  it  was  gone.  Climbing  to  a  high 
chamber  in  a  well  of  houses,  he  threw  himself  down  in  his 
clothes  on  a  neglected  bed,  and  its  pillow  was  wet  with  wasted 
tears. 

Sadly,  sadly  the  sun  rose  ;  it  rose  upon  no  sadder  sight 
than  the  man  of  good  abilities  and  good  emotions,  incapable 
of  their  directed  exercise,  incapable  of  his  own  help  and  his 
own  happiness,  sensible  of  the  blight  on  him,  and  resigning 
himself  to  let  it  eat  him  away. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

HUNDREDS  OF  PEOPLE. 

The  quiet  lodgings  of  Doctor  Manette  were  in  a  quiet 
street  corner  not  far  from  Soho-square.  On  the  afternoon  of 
a  certain  fine  Sunday  when  the  waves  of  four  months  had 
rolled  over  the  tiial  for  treason,  and  carried  it,  as  to  the  pub- 
lic interest  and  memory,  far  out  to  sea,  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry 
walked  along  the  sunny  streets  from  Clerkenwell^  where  he 
lived,  on  his  way  to  dine  with  the  Doctor.  After  several  re- 
lapses into  business  absorption,  Mr.  Lorry  had  become  the 
Doctor's  friend,  and  the  quiet  street-corner  was  the  sunny  part 
of  his  life. 

On  this  certain  fine  Sunday,  Mr.  Lorry  walked  towards 
Soho,  early  in  the  afternoon,  for  three  reasons  of  habit 


88 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Firstly,  because,  on  fine  Sundays,  he  often  walke«^  before 
dinner,  with  the  Doctor  and  Lucie  ;  secondly,  because,  on  un- 
favorable Sundays  he  was  accustomed  to  be  with  them  as  the 
family  friend,  talking,  reading,  looking  out  of  window,  and 
generally  getting  through  the  day ;  thirdly,  because  he  hap- 
pened to  have  his  own  little  shrewd  doubts  to  solve,  and  knew 
how  the  ways  of  the  Doctor's  household  pointed  to  that  time 
as  a  likely  time  for  solving  them. 

A  quainter  corner  than  the  corner  w^here  the  Doctor  lived, 
was  not  to  be  found  in  London.  There  was  no  way  through 
it,  and  the  front  windows  of  the  Doctor's  lodgings  commanded 
a  pleasant  little  vista  of  street  that  had  a  congenial  air  of 
retirement  on  it.  There  were  few  buildings  then,  north  of  the 
Oxford-road,  and  forest-trees  flourished,  and  wild  flowers 
grew,  and  the  hawthorn  blossomed,  in  the  now  vanished 
fields.  As  a  consequence,,  country  airs  circulated  in  Soho 
with  a  vigorous  freedom,  instead  of  languishing  into  the  parish 
like  stray  paupers  without  a  settlement ;  and  there  was  many 
a  good  south  wall,  not  far  off,  on  which  the  peaches  ripened 
in  their  season. 

The  summer  light  struck  into  the  corner  brilliantly  in  the 
earlier  part  of  the  day ;  but,  when  the  streets  grew  hot,  the 
corner  was  in  shadow,  though  not  in  shadow  so  remote 
but  that  you  could  see  beyond  it  into  a  glare  of  brightness. 
It  was  a  cool  spot,  staid  but  cheerful,  a  wonderful  place  for 
echoes,  and  a  very  harbor  from  the  raging  streets. 

There  ought  to  have  been  a  tranquil  bark  in  such  an 
anchorage,  and  there  was.  The  Doctor  occupied  two  floors 
of  a  large  still  house,  where  several  callings  purported  to  be 
pursued  by  day,  but  whereof  little  was  audible  any  day,  and 
which  was  shunned  by  all  of  them  by  night.  In  a  building  at 
the  back,  attainable  by  a  court-yard  where  a  plane-tree  rustled 
its  green  leaves,  church-organs  claimed  to  be  made,  and  silver 
to  be  chased,  and  likewise  gold  to  be  beaten  by  some  myste- 
rious giant  who  had  a  golden  arm  starting  out  of  the  wall  of 
the  front  hall — as  if  he  had  beaten  himself  precious,  and 
menaced  a  similar  conversion  of  all  visitors.  Very  little  of 
these  trades,  or  of  a  lonely  lodger  rumored  to  live  up  stairs, 
or  of  a  dim  coach-trimming  maker  asserted  to  have  a  count- 
'ing  house  below,  was  ever  heard  or  seen.  Occasionally,  a 
stray  workman  putting  his  coat  on,  traversed  the  hall,  or  a 
stranger  peered  about  there,  or  a  distant  clink  was  heard 
across  the  court-yard,  or  a  thump  from  the  golden  giant. 


HUNDREDS  OF  PEOPLE. 


89 


These,  however,  were  only  the  exceptions  required  to  prove 
the  rule  that  the  sparrows  in  the  plane-tree  behind  the  house, 
and  the  echoes  in  the  corner  before  it,  had  their  own  way 
from  Sunday  morning  unto  Saturday  night. 

Doctor  Manette  received  such  patients  here  as  his  old 
reputation,  and  its  revival  in  the  floating  whispers  of  his  stor}^, 
brought  him.  His  scientific  knowledge,  and  his  vigilance  and 
skill  in  conducting  ingenious  experiments,  brought  him  other- 
wise into  moderate  request,  and  he  earned  as  much  as  he 
wanted. 

These  things  were  within  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry's  knowledge, 
thoughts,  and  notice,  when  he  rang  the  door-bell  of  the  tran- 
quil house  in  the  corner,  on  the  fine  Sunday  afternoon. 

"  Doctor  Manette  at  home  1  " 

Expected  home. 

"  Miss  Lucie  at  home  ?  " 

Expected  home. 
Miss  Pross  at  home  ? " 

Possibly  at  home,  but  of  a  certainty  impossible  for  hand- 
maid to  anticipate  intentions  of  Miss  Pross,  as  to  admission 
or  denial  of  the  fact. 

"  As  I  am  at  home  myself,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  "  I'll  go  up 
stairs." 

Although  the  Doctor's  daughter  had  known  nothing  of  the 
country  of  her  birth,  she  appeared  to  have  innately  derived 
from  it  that  ability  to  make  much  of  little  means,  which  is  one 
of  its  most  useful  and  most  agreeable  characteristics.  Simple 
as  the  furniture  was,  it  was  set  off  by  so  many  little  adorn- 
ments, of  no  value  but  for  their  taste  and  fancy,  that  its  efTect 
was  delightful.  The  disposition  of  everything  in  the  rooms, 
from  the  largest  object  to  the  least ;  the  arrangement  of 
colors,  the  elegant  variety  and  contrast  obtained  by  thrift 
in  trifles,  by  delicate  hands,  clear  eyes,  and  good  sense  ;  were 
at  once  so  pleasant  in  themselves,  and  so  expressive  of  their 
originator,  that,  as  Mr.  Lorry  stood  looking  about  him,  the 
very  chairs  and  tables  seemed  to  ask  him,  with  something  of 
that  peculiar  expression  which  he  knew  so  well  by  this  time, 
whether  he  approved  } 

There  were  three  rooms  on  a  floor,  and,  the  doors  by 
which  they  communicated  being  put  open  that  the  air  might 
pass  freely  through  them  all,  Mr.  Lorry,  smilingly  observant 
of  that  fanciful  resemblance  which  lie  detected  all  round  him, 
W^alked  from  one  to  another.    The  flrst  was  the  best  room, 


90 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CTTIES. 


and  in  it  were  Lucie's  birds,  and  flowers,  and  books,  and  desk^ 
and  work-table,  and  box  of  water-colors  ;  the  second  was  the 
Doctor's  consulting-room,  used  also  as  the  dining-room  ;  the 
third,  changingly  speckled  by  the  rustle  of  the  plane-tree  in 
the  yard,  was  the  Doctor's  bed-room,  and  there,  in  a  corner, 
stood  the  disused  shoemaker's  benCh  and  tray  of  tools,  much 
as  it  had  stood  on  the  fifth  floor  of  the  dismal  house  by  the 
wine-shop,  in  the  suburb  of  Saint  Antoine  in  Paris. 

^'  I  wonder,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  pausing  in  his  looking  about, 
"  that  he  keeps  that  reminder  of  his  sufferings  about  him  !  " 

"  And  why  wonder  at  that  1  "  was  the  abrupt  inquiry  that 
made  him  start. 

It  proceeded  from  Miss  Pross,  the  wild  red  woman,  strong 
of  hand,  whose  acquaintance  he  had  first  made  at  the  Royal 
George  Hotel  at  Dover,  and  had  since  improved. 

"  I  should  have  thought  -"  Mr.  Lorry  began. 

Pooh  !  You'd  have  thought !  "  said  Miss  Pross  ;  and 
Mr.  Lorry  left  oif. 

How  do  you  do  ?  "  inquired  that  lady  then — sharply,  and 
yet  as  if  to  express  that  she  bore  him  no  malice. 

"  I  am  pretty  well,  I  thank  you,"  answered  Mr.  Lorry,  with 
meekness  ;     how  are  you  ?  " 

"Nothing  to  boast  of,"  said  Miss  Pross. 

" Indeed  ?  " 

"  Ah  1  indeed  !  "  said  Miss  Pross.    "  I  am  very  much  put 
out  about  my  Ladybird." 
"Indeed.?  " 

"  For  gracious  sake  say  something  else  besides  *  indeed,' 
or  you'll  fidget  me  to  death,"  said  Miss  Pross  :  whose  char- 
acter  (dissociated  from  stature)  was  shortness. 

"  Really,  then  ?  '^  said  Mr.  Lorry,  as  an  amendment. 

"  Really,  is  bad  enough,"  returned  Miss  Pross,  "  but  better. 
Yes,  I  am  very  much  put  out." 

"  May  I  ask  the  cause  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  dozens  of  people  who  are  not  at  all  worthy 
of  Ladybird,  to  come  here  looking  after  her,"  said  Miss  Pross. 
"  Do  dozens  come  for  that  purpose  ? " 
"  Hundreds,"  said  Miss  Pross. 

It  was  characteristic  of  this  lady  (as  of  some  other  people 
before  her  time  and  since)  that  whenever  her  original  proposi- 
tion was  questioned,  she  exaggerated  it. 

"  Dear  me  "  said  Mr.  Lorry,  as  the  safest  remark  he  could 
think  of. 


HUNDREDS  OF  PEOPLE. 


9^ 


"  I  have  lived  with  the  darling — or  the  darhng  has  lived 
with  me,  and  paid  me  for  it  ;  which  she  certainly  should  never 
have  done,  you  may  take  your  affidavit,  if  I  could  have  afforded 
to  keep  either  myself  or  her  for  nothing — since  she  was  ten 
years  old.    And  it's  really  very  hard,"  said  Miss  Pross. 

Not  seeing  with  precision  what  was  very  hard,  Mr.  Lorry 
shook  his  head  ;  using  that  important  part  of  himself  as  a 
soft  of  fairy  cloak  that  would  fit  anything. 

"  All  sorts  of  people  who  are  not  in  the  least  degree 
worthy  of  the  pet,  are  always  turning  up,"  said  Miss  Pross. 
When  you  began  it  " 

"  /  began  it,  Miss  Pross  " 
Didn't  you  ?    Who  brought,  her  father  to  life  ?  " 

"  Oh  !    If  //laf  was  beginning  it  "  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

It  wasn't  ending  it,  I  suppose  ?  I  say,  when  you  began 
it,  it  was  hard  enough  ;  not  that  I  have  any  fault  to  find  with 
Doctor  Manette,  except  that  he  is  not  worthy  of  such  a 
daughter,  which  is  no  imputation  on  him,  for  it  was  not  to  be 
expected  that  anybody  should  be,  under  any  circumstances. 
But  it  really  is  doubly  and  trebly  hard  to  have  crowds  and 
multitudes  of  people  turning  up  after  him  (I  could  have  for- 
given him),  to  take  Ladybird's  affections  away  from  me.'^ 

Mr.  Lorry  knew  Miss  Pross  to  be  very  jealous,  but  he  also 
knew  her  by  this  time  to  be,  beneath  the  service  of  her  eccen- 
tricity, one  of  those  unselfish  creatures — found  only  among 
women — who  will,  for  pure  love  and  admiration,  bind  them- 
selves willing  slaves,  to  youth  when  they  have  lost  it,  to 
beauty  that  they  never  had,  to  accomplishments  that  they  were 
never  fortunate  enough  to  gain,  to  bright  hopes  that  never 
shone  upon  their  own  sombre  lives.  He  knew  enough  of  the 
world  to  know  that  there  is  nothing  in  it  better  than  the  faith- 
ful  service  of  the  heart ;  so  rendered  and  so  free  from  any 
mercenary  taint,  he  had  such  an  exalted  respect  for  it,  that  in 
the  retributive  arrangements  made  by  his  own  mind — we  all 
make  such  arrangements,  more  or  less — he  stationed  Miss 
Pross  much  nearer  to  the  lower  Angels  than  many  ladies  im- 
m.easurably  better  got  up  both  by  Nature  and  Art,  who  had 
balances  at  Tellson's. 

"There  never  was,  nor  will  be,  but  one  man  worthy  of 
Ladybird,"  said  Miss  Pross;  "and  that  was  my  brother 
Solomon,  if  he  hadn't  made  a  mistake  in  life.'^ 

Here  again  :  Mr.  Lorry's  inquiries  into  Miss  Prose's  per- 
sonal history  had  established  the  fact  that  her  brother  Solo* 


92 


A  TALE  OF  Tiro  CITIES. 


mon  was  a  heartless  scoundrel  who  had  stripped  her  of  every, 
thug  she  possessed,  as  a  stake  to  speculate  with,  and  had 
abandoned  her  in  her  poverty  for  evermore,  vvith  no  touch  of 
compunction.  Miss  Press's  fidelity  of  belief  in  Solomon 
(deducting  a  mere  trifle  for  this  slight  mistake)  was  quite  a 
serious  matter  with  Mr.  Lorry,  and  had  its  Vv'eight  in  his  good 
opinion  of  her. 

"  As  we  happen  to  be  alone  for  the  moment,  and  are  both 
people  of  business,''  he  said,  when  they  had  got  back  to  the 
drawing-room  and  had  sat  down  there  in  friendly  relations, 
let  me  ask  you — does  the  Doctor,  in  talking  with  Lucie, 
never  refer  to  the  shoemaking  time,  yet  ?  " 
Never." 

And  yet  keeps  that  bench  and  those  tools  beside  him  ? " 
Ah  !  "  returned  Miss  Pross,  shaking  her  head.       But  I 
don't  say  he  don't  refer  to  it  within  himself." 

Do  you  believe  that  he  thinks  of  it  much  ?  " 
I  do,"  said  Miss  Pross. 

"  Do  you  imagine  "  Mr.  Lorry  had  begun,  when  Miss 

Pross  took  him  up  short  with  : 

"  Never  imagine  anything.    Have  no  imagination  at  all." 
"  I  stand  corrected ;  do  you  suppose — you  go  so  far  as  to 
suppose,  sometimes?" 

"  Now  and  then,"  said  Miss  Pross. 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  Mr.  Lorry  went  on,  with  a  laughing 
twinkle  in  his  bright  eye,  as  it  looked  kindly  at  her,  that 
Doctor  Manette  has  any  theory  of  his  own,  preserv^ed  through 
all  those  years,  relative  to  the  cause  of  his  being  so  oppressed  ; 
perhaps,  even  to  the  name  of  his  oppressor  ? " 

I  don't  suppose  anvthing  about  it  but  what  Ladybird  tells 

me." 

"And  that  is  ?" 

"  That  she  thinks  he  has.*' 

"  Now  don't  be  angry  at  my  asking  all  these  questions  ; 
because  I  am  a  mere  dull  man  of  business,  and  you  are  a 
woman  of  business." 

Dull  ?  "  Miss  Pross  inquired,  with  placidity. 

Rather  wishing  his  modest  adjective  away,  Mr.  Lorry  re- 
plied, "  No,  no,  no.  Surely  not.  To  return  to  business  : — • 
Is  it  not  remarkable  that  Doctor  Manette,  unquestionably 
innocent  of  any  crime  as  we  are  all  well  assured  he  is,  should 
never  touch  upon  that  question  ?  I  will  not  say  with  me, 
though  he  had  business  relations  with  me  many  years  ago, 


HUNDREDS  OF  PEOPLE 


93 


and  we  are  now  intimate ;  I  will  say  with  the  fair  daughter  to 
whom  he  is  so  devotedly  attached,  and  who  is  so  devotedly 
attached  to  him  ?  Believe  me,  Miss  Pross,  I  don't  approach 
the  topic  with  you,  out  of  curiosity,  but  out  of  zealous  in- 
terest." 

Well !  To  the  best  of  my  understanding,  and  bad's  the 
best,  you'll  tell  me,'^  said  Miss  Pross,  softened  by  the  tone  of 
the  apology,  "  he  is  afraid  of  the  whole  subject." 

Afraid  ?" 

"  It's  plain  enough,  I  should  think,  why  he  may  be.  It's 
a  dreadful  remembrance.  Besides  that,  his  loss  of  himself 
grew  out  of  it.  Not  knowing  how  he  lost  himself,  or  how  he 
recovered  himself,  he  may  never  feel  certain  of  not  losing 
himself  again.  That  alone  wouldn't  make  the  subject  pleas- 
ant, I  should  think." 

It  was  a  profounder  remark  than  Mr.  Lorry  had  looked 
for.  "True,"  said  he,  "and  fearful  to  reflect  upon.  Yet,  a 
doubt  lurks  m  my  mind.  Miss  Pross,  whether  it  is  good  for 
Doctor  Manette  to  have  that  suppression  always  shut  up 
within  him.  Indeed,  it  is  this  doubt  and  the  uneasiness  it 
sometimes  causes  me  that  has  led  me  to  our  present  con- 
fidence." 

"  Can't  be  helped,"  said  Miss  Pross,  shaking  her  head. 
"  Touch  that  string,  and  he  instantly  changes  for  the  worse. 
Better  leave  it  alone.  In  short,  must  leave  it  alone,  like  or 
no  like.  Sometimes,  he  gets  up  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  and 
will  be  heard,  by  us  overhead  there,  walking  up  and  down, 
walking  up  and  down,  in  his  room.  Ladybird  has  learnt  to 
know  then  that  his  mind  is  walking  up  and  down,  walking  up 
and  down,  in  his  old  prison.  She  hurries  to  him,  and  they  go 
on  together,  walking  up  and  down,  walking  up  and  down, 
until  he  is  composed.  But  he  never  says  a  word  of  the  true 
reason  of  his  restlessness,  to  her,  and  she  finds  it  best  not  to 
hint  at  it  to  him.  In  silence  they  go  walking  up  and  down 
together,  walking  up  and  down  together,  till  her  love  and 
company  have  brought  him  to  himself." 

Notwithstanding  Miss  Pross's  denial  of  her  own  imagi- 
nation, there  was  a  perception  of  the  pain  of  being  monoto- 
nously haunted  by  one  sad  idea,  in  her  repetition  of  the 
phrase,  walking  up  and  down,  which  testified  to  her  possess- 
ing such  a  thing. 

The  corner  has  been  mentioned  as  a  wonderful  corner  for 
echoes  ;  it  had  begun  to  echo  so  resoundingly  to  the  tread  of 


94 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


coming  feet,  that  it  seemed  as  though  the  very  mention  oi 
that  weary  pacing  to  and  fro  had  set  it  going. 

Here  they  are  !  "  said  Miss  Pross,  rising  to  break  up  the 
conference  ,  and  now  we  shall  have  hundreds  of  people 
pretty  soon  ! " 

It  was  such  a  curious  corner  in  its  acoustical  properties,, 
such  a  peculiar  Ear  of  a  place,  that  as  Mr.  Lorry  stood  at  the 
open  window,  looking  for  the  father  and  daughter  whose  steps 
he  heard,  he  fancied  they  would  never  approach.  Not  only 
would  the  echoes  die  away,  as  though  the  steps  had  gone  ; 
but,  echoes  of  other  steps  that  never  came  would  be  heard  in 
their  stead,  and  would  die  away  for  good  when  they  seemed 
close  at  hand.  However,  father  and  daughter  did  at  last 
appear,  and  Miss  Pross  was  ready  at  the  street  door  to  receive 
them. 

Miss  Pross  was  a  pleasant  sight,  albeit  wild,  and  red,  and 
grim,  taking  off  her  darling's  bonnet  when  she  came  up  stairs^ 
and  touching  it  up  with  the  ends  of  her  handkerchief,  and 
blowing  the  dust  off  it,  and  folding  her  mantle  ready  for  lay- 
ing by,  and  smoothing  her  rich  hair  with  as  much  pride  as  she 
could  possibly  have  taken  in  her  own  hair  if  she  had  been  the 
vainest  and  handsomest  of  women.  Her  darling  was  a  pleas- 
ant sight  too,  em.bracing  her  and  thanking  her,  and  protesting 
against  her  taking  so  much  trouble  for  her — which  last  she 
only  dared  to  do  playfully,  or  Miss  Pross,  sorely  hurt,  would 
have  retired  to  her  own  chamber  and  cried.  The  Doctor  was 
a  pleasant  sight  too,  looking  on  at  them,  and  telling  Miss 
Pross  how  she  spoilt  Lucie,  in  accents  and  with  eyes  that  had 
as  much  spoiling  in  them  as  Miss  Pross  had,  and  would  have 
had  more  if  it  were  possible.  Mr.  Lorry  was  a  pleasant  sight 
too,  beaming  at  all  this  in  his  little  wig,  and  thanking  his 
bachelor  stars  for  having  lighted  him  in  his  declining  years  to 
a  Home.  But,  no  Hundreds  of  people  came  to  see  the  sights, 
and  Mr.  Lorry  looked  in  vain  for  the  fulfilment  of  Miss  Pross's 
prediction. 

Dinner-time  and  still  no  Hundreds  of  people.  In  the 
arrangements  of  the  little  household.  Miss  Pross  took  charge 
of  the  lower  regions,  and  always  acquitted  herself  marvellously. 
Her  dinners,  of  a  very  modest  quality,  were  so  well  cooked 
and  so  well  served,  and  so  neat  in  their  contrivances,  half 
English  and  half  French,  that  nothing  could  be  better.  Misg 
Pross's  friendship  being  of  the  thoroughly  practical  kind^  she 
had  ravaged  Soho  and  the  adjacent  provinces,  in  search  of 


HUNDREDS  OF  PEOPLE. 

impoverished  French,  who,  tempted  by  shillings  and  half 
crowns,  would  impart  culinary  mysteries  to  her.  From  these 
decayed  sons  and  daughters  of  Gaul,  she  had  acquired  such 
wonderful  arts,  that  the  woman  and  girl  who  formed  the  staff 
of  domestics  regarded  her  as  quite  a  Sorceress,  or  Cinderella's 
Godmother :  who  would  send  out  for  a  fowl,  a  rabbit,  a  vege- 
table or  two  from  the  garden,  and  change  them  into  anything 
she  pleased. 

On  Sundays,  Miss  Pross  dined  at  the  Doctor's  table,  but 
on  other  days  persisted  in  taking  her  meals  at  unknown 
periods,  either  in  the  lower  regions,  or  in  her  own  room  on 
the  second  floor — a  blue  chamber,  to  which  no  one  but  her 
Ladybird  ever  gained  admittance.  On  this  occasion.  Miss 
Pross,  responding  to  Ladybird's  pleasant  face  and  pleasant 
efforts  to  please  her,  unbent  exceedingly  ,  so  the  dinner  was 
very  pleasant,  too. 

It  was  an  oppressive  day,  and,  after  dinner,  Lucie  pro- 
posed that  the  wine  should  be  carried  out  under  the  plane- 
tree,  and  they  should  sit  there  in  the  air.  As  everything 
turned  upon  her,  and  revolved  about  her,  they  went  out  under 
the  plane-tree,  and  she  carried  the  wine  down  for  the  special 
benefit  of  Mr„  Lorry.  She  had  installed  herself,  some  time 
before,  as  Mr.  Lorry's  cup-bearer ;  and  while  they  sat  under 
the  plane-tree,  talking,  she  kept  his  glass  replenished.  Mys- 
terious backs  and  ends  of  houses  peeped  at  them  as  they 
talked,  and  the  plane-tree  whispered  to  them  in  its  own  way 
above  their  heads. 

Still,  the  Hundreds  of  people  did  not  present  themselves. 
Mr.  Darnay  presented  himself  while  they  were  sitting  under 
the  plane-tree,  but  he  was  only  One. 

Doctor  Manette  received  him  kindly,  and  so  did  Lucie. 
But,  Miss  Pross  suddenly  became  afflicted  with  a  twitching  in 
the  head  and  body,  and  retired  into  the  house.  She  was  not 
unfrequently  the  victim  of  this  disorder,  and  she  called  it,  in 
familiar  conversation,  "  a  fit  of  the  jerks.'' 

The  Doctor  was  in  his  best  condition,  and  looked  spe- 
cially young.  The  resemblance  between  him  and  Lucie  was 
very  strong  at  such  times,  and  as  they  sat  side  by  side,  she 
leaning  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  resting  his  arm  on  the  back 
of  her  chair,  it  was  very  agreeable  to  trace  the  likeness. 

He  had  been  talking  all  day,  on  many  subjects,  and  with 
unusual  vivacity.  Pray,  Doctor  Manette,"  said  Mr.  Darnay, 
as  they  sat  under  the  plane-tree — and  he  said  it  in  the  nat 


96 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


ural  pursuit  of  the  topic  in  hand,  which  happened  to  be  the 
old  buildings  of  London — have  you  seen  much  of  the 
Tower?'' 

Lucie  and  I  have  been  there  ;  but  only  casually.  We 
have  seen  enough  of  it  to  know  that  it  teems  with  interest  \ 
little  more." 

"  /  have  been  there,  as  you  remember/'  said  Darnay,  with 
a  smile,  though  reddening  a  little  angrily,  in  another  char- 
acter, and  not  in  a  character  that  gives  facilities  fcj  seeing 
much  of  it.    They  told  me  a  curious  thing  when  I  was  there." 

"  What  was  that  "  Lucie  asked. 
In  making  some  alterations,  the  workmen  came  upon  an 
old  dungeon,  which  had  been,  for  many  years,  built  up  and 
forgotten.  Every  stone  of  its  inner  wall  was  covered  by  in- 
scriptions which  had  been  carved  by  prisoners — dates,  names, 
complaints,  and  prayers.  Upon  a  corner  stone  in  an  angle 
of  the  wall,  one  prisoner,  who  seemed  to  have  gone  to  execu- 
tion, had  cut  as  his  last  work,  three  letters.  They  were  done 
with  some  very  poor  instrument,  and  hurriedly,  with  an  un- 
steady hand.  At  first,  they  were  read  as  D.  I.  C.  ;  but,  on 
being  more  carefully  examined,  the  last  letter  was  found  to  btj 
G.  There  was  no  record  or  legend  of  any  prisoner  with 
those  initials,  and  many  fruitless  guesses  were  made  what  the 
name  could  have  been.  At  length,  it  was  suggested  that  the 
letters  were  not  initials,  but  the  complete  word.  Dig.  The 
floor  was  examined  very  carefully  under  the  inscription,  and, 
in  the  earth  beneath  a  stone,  or  tile,  or  some  fragment  of  pav- 
ing, were  found  the  ashes  of  a  paper,  mingled  with  the  ashes 
of  a  small  leathern  case  or  bag.  What  the  unknown  pris- 
oner had  written  will  never  be  read,  but  he  had  written  some- 
thing, and  hidden  it  away  to  keep  it  from  the  gaoler." 

"  My  father,"  exclaimed  Lucie,    you  are  ill !  " 

He  had  suddenly  started  up,  with  his  hand  to  his  head. 
His  manner  and  his  look  quite  terrified  them  all. 

"  No,  my  dear,  not  ill.  There  are  large  drops  of  rain 
falling,  and  they  made  me  start.    We  had  better  go  in." 

He  recovered  himself  almost  instantly.  Rain  was  really 
falling  in  large  drops,  and  he  showed  the  back  of  his  hand 
with  rain-drops  on  it.  But,  he  said  not  a  single  word  in  ref- 
erence to  the  discovery  that  had  been  told  of,  and,  as  they 
went  into  the  house,  the  business  eye  of  Mr.  Lorry  either  de- 
tected, or  fancied  it  detected,  on  his  face,  as  it  turned  towards 
Charles  Darnay  the  same  singular  look  that  had  been  upon 


HUNDREDS  OF  PEOPLE. 


97 


it  when  it  turned  towards  him  in  the  passages  of  the  Court 
House. 

He  recovered  himself  so  quickly,  however,  that  Mr.  Lorry 
had  doubts  of  his  business  eye.  The  arm  of  the  golden  giant 
in  the  hall  was  not  more  steady  than  he  was,  when  he  stopped 
under  it  to  remark  to  them  that  he  was  not  yet  proof  against 
slight  surprises  (if  he  ever  would  be),  and  that  the  rain  had 
startled  him. 

Tea-time,  and  Miss  Pross  making  tea,  with  another  fit  of 
the  jerks  upon  her,  and  yet  no  Hundreds  of  people.  Mr. 
Carton  had  lounged  in,  but  he  only  made  Two. 

The  night  was  so  very  sultry,  that  although  they  sat  with 
doors  and  windows  open,  they  were  overpowered  by  heat. 
When  the  tea-table  was  done  with,  they  all  moved  to  one  of 
the  windows,  and  looked  out  into  the  heavy  twilight.  Lucie 
s^t  by  her  father  ;  Darnay  sat  beside  her ;  and  Carton  leaned 
against  a  window.  The  curtains  were  long  and  white,  and 
some  of  the  thunder-gusts  that  whirled  into  the  corner,  caught 
them  up  to  the  ceiling,  and  waved  them  like  spectral  wings.  ^ 
The  rain-drops  are  still  falling,  large,  heavy,  and  few,'' 
said  Doctor  Manette.  It  comes  slowly." 
It  comes  surely,'^  said  Carton. 

They  spoke  low,  as  people  watching  and  waiting  mostly 
do  ;  as  people  in  a  dark  room,  watching  and  waiting  for 
Lightning,  always  do. 

There  was  a  great  hurry  in  the  streets,  of  people  speeding 
away  to  get  shelter  before  the  storm  broke  ;  the  wonderful 
corner  for  echoes  resounded  with  the  echoes  of  footsteps  com- 
ing and  going,  yet  not  a  footstep  was  there. 

A  multitude  of  people,  and  yet  a  solitude  !  "  said  Darnay 
tvhen  they  had  listened  for  a  while. 

"  Is  it  not  impressive,  Mr.  Darnay?  "  asked  Lucie.  "  Some« 
times,  I  have  sat  here  of  an  evening,  until  I  have  fancied — 
but  even  the  shade  of  a  foolish  fancy  makes  me  shudder  to 
night,  when  all  is  so  black  and  solemn  " 

*'Let  us  shudder  too.  We  may  know  what  it  is.'' 
It  will  seem  nothing  to  you.  Such  whims  are  only  im- 
pressive as  we  originate  them,  I  think ;  they  are  not  to  be 
communicated.  I  have  sometimes  sat  alone  here  of  an  even- 
ing,  listening,  until  I  have  made  the  echoes  out  to  be  the 
echoes  of  all  the  footsteps  that  are  coming  by  and  by  into 
our  lives." 

"  There  is  a  great  crowd  coming  one  day  into  our  lires,  if 
that  be  so,"  Sydney  Carton  struck  in,  in  his  moody  way. 


98 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


The  footsteps  were  incessant,  and  the  hurry  of  them  be 
came  more  and  more  rapid.  The  corner  echoed  and  re 
echoed  with  the  tread  of  feet ;  some,  as  it  seemed,  under  thft 
windows  ;  some,  as  it  seemed,  in  the  roorn  ;  some  coming, 
some  going,  some  breaking  off,  some  stopping  altogether ;  all 
in  the  distant  streets,  and  not  one  within  sight. 

"  Are  all  these  footsteps  destined  to  come  to  all  of  us.  Miss 
iVIanette,  or  are  we  to  divide  them  among  us  ? 

"  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Darnay ;  I  told  you  it  was  a  foolish 
fancy,  but  you  asked  for  it.  When  I  have  yielded  myself  to 
it,  I  have  been  alone,  and  then  I  have  imagined  them  the 
footsteps  of  the  people  who  are  to  come  into  my  life,  and  my 
fathers." 

"  I  take  them  into  mine  !  "  said  Carton.  "  /  ask  no  ques- 
tions and  make  no  stipulations.    There  is  a  great  crowd  bear- 

ing  down  upon  us.  Miss  Manette,  and  I  see  them  by  the 

Lightning."  He  added  the  last  words,  after  there  had  been 
a  vivid  flash  which  had  shown  him  lounging  in  the  window. 

"  And  I  hear  them  !  "  he  added  again,  after  a  peal  oi 
thunder.       Here  they  come,  fast,  fierce,  and  furious  !  " 

It  was  the  rush  and  roar  of  rain  that  he  typified,  and  it 
stopped  him,  for  no  voice  could  be  heard  in  it.  A  memorable 
storm  of  thunder  and  lightning  broke  with  that  sweep  of 
water,  and  there  was  not  a  moment's  interval  in  crash,  and 
fire,  and  rain,  until  after  the  moon  rose  at  midnight. 

The  great  bell  of  Saint  Paul's  was  striking  One  in  the 
cleared  air,  when  Mr.  Lorry,  escorted  by  Jerry,  high-booted 
and  bearing  a  lantern,  set  forth  on  his  return-passage  to 
Clerkenwell.  There  were  solitary  patches  of  road  on  the  way 
between  Soho  and  Clerkenwell,  and  Mr.  Lorry,  mindful  of 
footpads,  always  retained  Jerry  for  this  service  :  though  it  was 
usually  performed  a  good  two  hours  earlier. 

"  What  a  night  it  has  been  !  Almost  a  night,  Jerry,"  said 
Mr.  Lorry,    to  bring  the  dead  out  of  their  graves." 

I  never  see  the  night  myself,  master — nor  yet  I  don't 
expect  to — what  would  do  that,"  answered  Jerry. 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Carton,"  said  the  man  of  business. 
"  Good-night,  Mr.  Darnay.  Shall  we  ever  see  such  a  night 
again,  together !  " 

Perhaps.  Perhaps,  see  the  great  crowd  of  people  with  its 
rush  and  roar,  bearing  down  upon  them,  too 


MONSEIGNEUR  IN  TOWN. 


99 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MONSEIGNEUR  IN  TOWN. 

MoNSEiGNEUR,  One  of  the  great  lords  in  power  at  the 
Court,  held  his  fortnightly  reception  in  his  grand  hotel  in 
Paris.  Monseigneur  was  in  his  inner  room,  his  sanctuary  of 
sanctuaries,  the  Holiest  of  Holiests  to  the  crowd  of  worship- 
pers in  the  suite  of  rooms  without.  Monseigneur  was  about 
to  take  his  chocolate.  Monseigner  could  swallow  a  great 
many  things  with  ease,  and  was  by  some  few  sullen  minds 
supposed  to  be  rather  rapidly  swallowing  France ;  but,  his 
morning's  chocolate  could  not  so  much  as  get  into  the  throat 
of  Monseigneur,  without  the  aid  of  four  strong  men  besides 
the  Cook. 

Yes.  It  took  four  men,  all  four  a-blaze  with  gorgeous 
decoration,  and  the  Chief  of  them  unable  to  exist  with  fewer 
than  two  gold  watches  in  his  pocket,  emulative  of  the  noble 
and  chaste  fashion  set  by  Monseigneur,  to  conduct  the  happy 
chocolate  to  Monseigneur's  lips.  One  lacquey  carried  the 
chocolate-pot  into  the  sacred  presence  ;  a  second,  milled  and 
frothed  the  chocolate  with  the  little  instrument  he  bore  for 
that  function  ;  a  third,  presented  the  favored  napkin ;  a  fourth 
(he  of  the  two  gold  watches),  poured  the  chocolate  out.  It 
was  impossible  for  Monseigneur  to  dispense  with  one  of  these 
attendants  on  the  chocolate  and  hold  his  high  place  under  the 
admiring  Heavens.  Deep  would  have  been  the  blot  upon  his 
escutcheon  if  his  chocolate  had  been  ignobly  waited  on  by 
,only  three  men  ;  he  must  have  died  of  two. 
'  Monseigneur  had  been  out  at  a  little  supper  last  night, 
'  where  the  Comedy  and  the  Grand  Opera  were  charmingly 
represented.  Monseigneur  was  out  at  a  little  supper  most 
nights,  with  fascinating  company.  So  polite  and  so  impressi- 
ble was  Monseigneur,  that  the  Comedy  and  the  Grand  Opera 
had  far  more  influence  with  him  in  the  tiresome  articles  of 
slate  affairs  and  state  secrets,  than  the  needs  of  all  France, 
A  happy  circumstance  for  France,  as  the  like  always  is  for  all 
countries  similarly  favored  ! — always  was  for  England  (byway 
of  example),  in  the  regretted  days  of  the  merry  Stuart  who 
sold  it. 


JOO 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Monseigneur  had  one  truly  noble  idea  of  general  public 
business,  which  was,  to  let  everything  go  on  in  its  own  way ; 
of  particular  public  business,  Monseigneur  had  the  other 
truly  noble  idea  that  it  must  all  go  his  way — tend  to  his  own 
power  and  pocket.  Of  his  pleasures,  general  and  particular, 
Monseigneur  had  the  other  truly  noble  idea,  that  the  world. 
>/^as  made  for  them.  The  text  of  his  order  (altered  from  the 
original  by  only  a  pronoun,  which  is  not  much)  ran  :  ''The 
earth  and  the  fulness  thereof  are  mine,  saith  Monseigneur." 

Yet,  Monseigneur  had  slowly  found  that  vulgar  embarrass- 
ments crept  into  his  affairs,  both  private  and  public ;  and  he 
had,  as  to  both  classes  of  affairs,  allied  himself  perforce  with 
a  Farmer-General.  As  to  finances  public,  because  Monseign- 
eur could  not  make  anythmg  at  all  of  them,  and  must  con- 
sequently let  them  out  to  somebody  who  could  ;  as  to  finances 
private,  because  Farmer-Generals  were  rich,  and  Monseigneur, 
efter  generations  of  great  luxury  and  expense,  was  growing 
poor.  Hence  Monseigneur  had  taken  his  sister  from  a  convent, 
while  there  was  yet  time  to  ward  off  the  impending  veil,  the 
cheapest  garment  she  could  wear,  and  had  bestowed  her  as  a 
prize  upon  a  very  rich  Farmer-General,  poor  in  family.  Which 
Farmer-General,  carrying  an  appropriate  cane  with  a  goldep 
apple  on  the  top  of  it,  was  now  among  the  company  in  the 
outer  rooms,  much  prostrated  before  by  mankind — always 
excepthig  superior  mankind  of  the  blood  of  Monseigneur,  who, 
his  own  wife  included,  looked  down  upon  him  with  the  loftiest 
contempt. 

A  sumptuous  man  was  the  Farmer-General.  Thirty  horses 
stood  in  his  stables,  twenty-four  male  domestics  sat  in  his  halls, 
six  body-women  waited  on  his  wife.  As  one  who  pretended 
to  do  nothing  but  plunder  and  forage  where  he  could,  the 
Farmer-General — howsoever  his  matrimonial  relations  con- 
duced to  social  morality — was  at  least  the  greatest  reality 
among  the  personages  who  attended  at  the  hotel  of  Monseign- 
eur that  day. 

For,  the  rooms,  though  a  beautiful  scene  to  look  at,  and 
adorned  with  every  device  of  decoration  tliat  the  taste  and  skill 
of  the  time  could  achieve,  were,  in  truth,  not  a  sound  business  ; 
considered  with  any  reference  to  the  scarecrows  in  the  rags 
and  nightcaps  elsewhere  (and  not  so  far  off,  either,  but  that 
the  watching  towers  of  Notre  Dame,  almost  equi-distant  from 
the  two  extremes,  could  see  them  both),  they  would  have  been 
an  exceedingly  uncomfortable  business — if  that  could  have 


MONSEJGNEUR  IN  TOWN, 


loi 


been  anybody's  business,  at  the  house  of  Monseigneur.  Mil- 
itary officers  destitute  of  military  knowledge  ;  naval  officers 
with  no  idea  of  a  ship  ;  civil  officers  without  a  notion  of  affairs; 
brazen  ecclesiastics,  of  the  worst  world  worldly,  with  sensual 
eyes,  loose  tongues,  and  looser  lives;  all  totally  unfit  for  their 
several  callings,  all  lying  horribly  in  pretending  to  belong  to 
them,  but  all  nearly  or  remotely  of  the  order  of  Monseigneur, 
and  therefore  foisted  on  all  public  employments  from  which 
anything  was  to  be  got  \  these  were  to  be  told  off  by  the  score 
and  the  score.  People  not  immediately  connected  wdth  Mon- 
seigneur or -the  State,  yet  equally  unconnected  with  anything 
that  was  real,  or  with  Uves  passed  in  travelling  by  any  straight 
road  to  any  true  earthly  end,  were  no  less  abundant.  Doctors 
who  made  great  fortunes  out  of  dainty  remedies  for  imaginary 
disorders  that  never  existed,  smiled  upon  their  courtly  patients 
in  the  ante-chambers  of  Monseigneur.  Projectors  who  had 
discovered  ever^^  kind  of  remedy  for  the  little  evils  wdth  which 
the  State  was  touched,  except  the  remedy  of  setting  to  work 
in  earnest  to  root  out  a  single  sm,  poured  their  distracting 
babble  into  any  ears  they  could  lay  hold  of,  at  the  reception 
of  Monseigneur.  Unbelieving  Philosophers  who  were  remo- 
delling the  world  with  w^ords  and  making  card-towers  of  Babel 
to  scale  the  skies  with,  talked  with  Unbelieving  Chemists  wh(^ 
had  an  eye  on  the  transmutation  of  metals,  at  this  wonderful 
gathering  accumulated  by  Monseigneur.  Exquisite  gentlemep 
of  the  finest  breeding,  which  was  at  that  remarkable  time — ' 
and  has  been  since — to  be  known  by  its  fniits  of  indifference* 
to  every  natural  subject  of  human  interest,  were  in  the  most 
exemplary  state  of  exhaustion,  at  the  hotel  of  Morseigneur, 
Such  homes  had  these  various  notabilities  left  behind  them  Id 
the  fine  world  of  Paris,  that  the  spies  among  the  assembled 
devotees  of  Monseigneur — forming  a  goodly  halt  of  the  polite 
company — would  have  found  it  hard  to  discover  among  the 
angels  of  that  sphere  one  solitary  wife,  who,  in  her  manners 
and  appearance,  owned  to  being  a  Mother.  Indeed,  except 
for  the  mere  act  of  bringing  a  troublesome  creature  into  this 
world — which  does  not  go  far  towards  the  realization  of  the 
name  of  mother — there  was  no  such  thing  known  to  the 
fashion.  Peasant  women  kept  the  unfashionable  babies  clo^e, 
and  brought  them  up,  and  charming  grand-mammas  of  sixty- 
dressed  and  supped  as  at  twenty. 

The  leprosy  of  unreality  disfigured  ever}^  human  creature 
in  attendance  upon  Monseigneur.    In  the  outermost  room 


M02 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


were  half  a  dozen  exceptional  people  who  had  had,  for  a  fe\^ 
years,  some  vague  misgiving  in  them  that  things  in  general 
were  going  rather  wrong.  As  a  promising  way  of  setting  them 
right,  half  of  the  half-dozen  had  become  members  of  a  fan- 
tastic sect  of  Convulsionists,  and  were  even  then  considering 
within  themselves  whether  they  should  foam,  rage,  roar,  and 
turn  cataleptic  on  the  spot — thereby  setting  up  a  highly  in- 
telligible finger-post  to  the  Future,  for  Monseigneur's  guidance. 
Besides  these  Dervishes,  were  other  three  who  had  rushed 
mto  another  sect,  which  mended  matter  with  a  jargon  about 
the  Centre  of  Truth  : Holding  that  Man  had  got  out  of  the 
Centre  of  Truth — which  did  not  need  much  demonstration — 
but  had  not  got  out  of  the  Circumference,  and  that  he  was  to 
be  kept  from  flying  out  of  the  Circumference,  and  was  even 
to  be  shoved  back  into  the  Centre,  by  fasting  and  seeing  of 
spirits.  Among  these,  accordingly,  much  discoursing  with 
spirits  went  on — and  it  did  a  world  of  good  which  never  be- 
came manifest. 

But,  the  comfort  was,  that  all  the  company  at  the  grand 
hotel  of  Monseigneur  were  perfectly  dressed.  If  the  Day  of 
Judgment  had  only  been  ascertained  to  be  a  dress  day,  every- 
body there  would  have  been  eternally  correct.  Such  frizzling 
and  powdering  and  sticking  up  of  hair,  such  delicate  com- 
plexions artificially  preserved  and  mended,  such  gallant  swords 
to  look  at,  and  such  delicate  honor  to  the  sense  of  smell,  would 
surely  keep  anything  going,  for  ever  and  ever.  The  exquisite 
gentlemen  of  the  finest  breeding  wore  little  pendent  trinkets 
that  chinked  as  they  languidly  moved  ;  these  golden  fetters 
rang  like  precious  little  bells  ;  and  what  with  that  ringing,  and 
with  the  rustle  of  silk  and  brocade  and  fine  linen,  there  was  a 
flutter  in  the  air  that  fanned  Saint  Antoine  and  his  devouring 
hunger  far  away. 

Dress  was  the  one  unfailing  talisman  and  charm  used  for 
keeping  all  things  in  their  places.  Everybody  was  dressed 
for  a  Fancy  Ball  that  was  never  to  leave  off.  From  the 
Palace  of  the  Tuileries,  through  Monseigneur  and  the  whole 
Court,  through  the  Chambers,  the  Tribunals  of  Justice,  and 
all  society  (except  the  scare-crows),  the  Fancy  Ball  descended 
to  the  Common  Executioner  :  who,  in  pursuance  of  the  charm, 
was  required  to  officiate  frizzled,  powdered,  in  a  gold-laced 
coat,  pumps,  and  white  silk  stockings."  At  the  gallows  and 
the  wheel — the  axe  was  a  rarity — Monsieur  Paris,  as  it  was 
the  episcopal  mode  among  his  brother  Professors  of  the  pro- 


MONSEIGNEUR  IN  TOWN. 


103 


vinces,  Monsieur  Orleans,  and  the  rest,  to  call  him,  presided 
in  this  dainty  dress.  And  who  among  the  company  at  Mon- 
seigneur's  reception  in  that  seventeen  hundred  and  eightieth 
year  of  our  Lord,  could  possibly  doubt,  that  a  system  rooted 
in  a  frizzled  hangman,  powdered,  gold-laced,  pumped,  and 
wliite  silk  stockinged,  would  see  the  very  stars  out  1 

Mon seigneur  having  eased  his  four  men  of  their  burdens 
and  taken  his  chocolate,  caused  the  doors  of  the  Holiest  of 
iHoliests  to  be  thrown  open,  and  issued  forth.  Then,  what 
submission,  what  cringing  and  fawning,  what  servility,  what 
abject  humiliation  !  As  to  bowing  down  in  body  and  spirit, 
nothing  in  that  way  was  left  for  Heaven — which  may  have 
been  one  among  other  reasons  why  the  worshippers  of  Mon- 
seigneur  never  troubled  it. 

Bestowing  a  word  of  promise  here  and  a  smile  there,  a 
whisper  on  one  happy  slave  and  a  wave  of  the  hand  on 
another,  Monseigneur  affably  passed  through  his  rooms  to  the 
remote  region  of  the  Circumference  of  Truth.  There,  Mon- 
seigneur turned,  and  came  back  again,  and  so  in  due  course 
of  time  got  himself  shut  up  in  his  sanctuary  by  the  chocolate 
sprites,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

The  show  being  over,  the  flutter  in  the  air  became  quite  a 
little  storm,  and  the  precious  little  bells  went  ringing  down 
stairs.  There  was  soon  but  one  person  left  of  all  the  crowd, 
and  he,  with  his  hat  under  his  arm  and  his  snuff-box  in  his 
hand,  slowly  passed  among  the  mirrors  on  his  way  out. 

"  I  devote  you,"  said  this  person,  stopping  at  the  last  door 
on  his  way,  and  turning  in  the  direction  of  the  sanctuary,  ^'  to 
the  Devil ! 

With  that,  he  shook  the  snuff  from  his  fingers  as  if  he  had 
shaken  the  dust  from  his  feet  and  quietly  walked  down  stairs. 

He  was  a  man  of  about  sixty,  handsomely  dressed,  haughty 
in  manner,  and  with  a  face  like  a  fine  mask.  A  face  of  a 
transparent  paleness ;  every  feature  in  it  clearly  defined  ;  one 
set  expression  on  it.  The  nose,  beautifully  formed  otherwise, 
was  very  slightly  pinched  at  the  top  of  each  nostril.  In  those 
two  compressions,  or  dints,  the  only  little  change  that  the  face 
ever  showed,  resided.  They  persisted  in  changing  color  some- 
times, and  they  would  be  occasionally  dilated  and  contracted 
by  something  like  a  faint  pulsation  ;  then,  they  gave  a  look  of 
treachery,  and  cruelty,  to  the  whole  countenance.  Examined 
with  attention,  its  capacity  of  helping  such  a  look  was  to  be 
found  in  the  line  of  the  mouth,  and  the  lines  of  the  orbits  of 


/4  lALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


the  eyes,  being;  much  too  horizontal  and  thin  ;  still,  in  the 
effect  tne  face  i^ade,  it  was  a  handsome  face,  and  a  remark- 
able one. 

Its  ownex  went  down  stairs  into  the  court-yard,  got  into 
his  carriage,  zxid  drove  away.  Not  many  people  had  talked 
with  him  at  the  reception  ;  he  had  stood  in  a  little  space  apart, 
and  Monseigneur  might  have  been  warmer  in  his  manner.  It 
appeared,  under  the  circumstances,  rather  agreeable  to  him  to 
see  the  common  people  dispersed  before  his  horses,  and  often 
barely  escaping  from  being  run  down.  His  man  drove  as  if 
he  were  charging  an  enemy,  and  the  furious  recklessness  of 
the  man  brought  no  check  into  the  face,  or  to  the  lips,  of  the 
master.  The  complaint  had  som.etimes  made  itself  audible, 
even  in  that  deaf  city  and  dumb  age,  that,  in  the  narrow 
streets  without  footways,  the  fierce  patrician  custom  of  hard 
driving  endangered  and  maimed  the  mere  vulgar  in  a  bar- 
barous manner.  But,  few  cared  enough  for  that  to  think  of  it 
a  second  time,  and,  in  this  matter,  as  in  all  others,  the  com- 
•  mon  wretches  were  left  to  get  out  of  their  difficulties  as  they 
could. 

With  a  wild  rattle  and  clatter,  and  an  inhuman  aban- 
donment of  consideration  not  easy  to  be  understood  in  these 
days,  the  carriage  dashed  through  streets  and  swept  round 
corners,  with  women  screaming  before  it,  and  men  clutching 
each  other  and  clutching  children  out  of  its  way.  At  last, 
swooping  at  a  street  corner  by  a  fountain,  one  of  its  wheels 
came  to  a  sickening  little  jolt,  and  there  was  a  loud  cry  from 
a  number  of  voices,  and  the  horses  reared  and  plunged. 

But  for  the  latter  inconvenience,  the  carriage  probably 
would  not  have  stopped  ;  carriages  were  often  known  to  drive 
on,  and  leave  their  wounded  behind,  and  v/hy  not  ?  But  the 
frightened  valet  had  got  down  in  a  hurry,  and  there  were 
twenty  hands  at  the  horses'  bridles. 

What  has  gone  wrong  ?  "  said  Monsieur,  calmly  looking 

out. 

A  tall  man  in  a  nightcap  had  caught  up  a  bundle  from 
among  the  feet  of  the  horses,  and  had  laid  it  on  the  basement 
of  the  fountain,  and  was  down  in  the  mud  and  wet,  howling 
over  it  like  a  wild  animal. 

Pardon,  Monsieur  the  Marquis  !  "  said  a  ragged  and 
submissive  man,  "it  is  a  child." 

Why  does  he  make  that  abominable  noise  ?  Is  it  his 
child?" 


MONSEIGNEUR  IN  luiVN. 


Excuse  me,  Monsieur  the  Marquis — it  is  a  pity — yes." 

The  fountain  was  a  little  removed  ;  for  the  street  opened, 
v«/here  it  was,  into  a  space  some  ten  or  twelve  yard's  square. 
As  the  tall  man  suddenly  got  up  from  the  ground,  and  came 
running  at  the  carriage,  Monsieur  the  Marquis  clapped  his 
hand  for  an  instant  on  his  sword-hilt. 

"  Killed  !  "  shrieked  the  man,  in  wild  desperation,  extend 
ing  both  arms  at  their  length  above  his  head,  and  staring  at 
him.    "  Dead  ! 

The  people  closed  round,  and  looked  at  Monsieur  the 
Marquis.  There  was  nothing  revealed  by  the  many  eyes  that 
looked  at  him  but  watchfulness  and  eagerness ;  there  was  no 
visible  menacing  or  anger.  Neither  did  the  people  say  any- 
thing ;  after  the  first  cry,  they  had  been  silent,  and  they  re- 
mained so.  The  voice  of  the  submissive  man  who  had  spoken, 
was  fiat  and  tame  in  its  extreme  submission.  Monsieur  the 
Marquis  ran  his  eyes  over  them  all,  as  if  they  had  been  mere 
rats  come  out  of  their  holes. 

He  took  out  his  purse. 

"It  is  extraordinary  to  me,"  said  he,  "that  you  people 
cannot  take  care  of  yourselves  and  your  children.  One  or  the 
other  of  you  is  for  ever  in. the  way.  How  do  I  know  what  in- 
jury you  have  done  my  horses.    See !    Give  him  that." 

He  threw  out  a  gold  coin  for  the  valet  to  pick  up,  and  all 
the  heads  craned  forward  that  all  the  eyes  might  look  down 
at  it  as  it  fell.  The  tall  man  called  out  again  with  a  most  un- 
earthly cry,  "  Dead  1  " 

He  was  arrested  by  the  quick  arrival  of  another  man,  for 
whom  the  rest  made  way.  On  seeing  him,  the  miserable 
creature  fell  upon  his  shoulder,  sobbing  and  crying,  and 
pointing  to  the  fountain,  where  some  women  were  stooping 
over  the  motionless  bundle,  and  moving  gently  about  it.  They 
were  as  silent,  however,  as  the  men. 

"  I  know  all,  I  know  all,"  said  the  last  comer.  "  Be  a 
brave  man,  my  Gaspard  !  It  is  better  for  the  poor  little  play- 
thing to  die  so,  than  to  live.  It  has  died  in  a  moment  with- 
out pain.    Could  it  have  lived  an  hour  as  happily?" 

"  You  are  a  philosopher,  you  there,"  said  the  Marquis, 
smiling.    "  How  do  they  call  you  ?  " 

"  They  call  me  Defarge." 

"  Of  what  trade  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  vendor  of  wine." 

"  Pick  up  that,  philosopher  and  vendor  of  wine,"  said  the 


io6 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Marquis,  throwing  him  another  gold  coin,  "  and  spend  it  as 
you  will.    The  horses  there  ;  are  they  right  ?  " 

Without  deigning  to  look  at  the  assemblage  a  second  time^ 
Monsieur  the  Marquis  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  and  was  just 
being  driven  away  with  the  air  of  a  gentleman  who  had  accv 
dentally  broke  some  common  thing,  and  had  paid  for  it,  and 
could  afford  to  pay  for  it  ;  when  his  ease  was  suddenly  dis 
turbed  by  a  coin  flying  into  his  carriage,  and  ringing  on  its 
floor. 

"  Hold  !  "  said  Monsieur  the  Marquis.  Hold  the  horses  ! 
Who  threw  that.? " 

He  looked  to  the  spot  where  Defarge  the  vendor  of  wine 
had  stood,  a  moment  before  ;  but  the  wretched  father  was 
grovelling  on  his  face  on  the  pavement  in  that  spot,  and  the 
figure  that  stood  beside  him  was  the  figure  of  a  dark  stout 
woman,  knitting. 

You  dogs  !  "  said  the  Marquis,  but  smoothly,  and  wich 
an  unchanged  front,  except  as  to  the  spots  on  his  nose  :  "  I 
*  would  ride  over  any  of  you  very  willingly,  and  exterminate 
you  from  the  earth.  If  I  knew  which  rascal  threw  at  the  car- 
riage, and  if  that  brigand  were  sufficiently  near  it,  he  should 
be  crushed  under  the  wheels." 

So  cowed  was  their  condition,  and  so  long  and  hard  theii 
experience  of  what  such  a  man  could  do  to  them,  within  the 
law  and  beyond  it,  that  not  a  voice  or  a  hand,  or  even  an  eye 
was  raised.  Among  the  men,  not  one.  But  the  woman  who 
stood  knitting  looked  up  steadily,  and  looked  the  Marquis  in 
the  face.  It  was  not  for  his  dignity  to  notice  it  ;  his  con- 
temptuous eyes  passed  over  her,  and  over  all  the  other  rats  ; 
and  he  leaned  bkck  in  his  seat  again,  and  gave  the  word 
Go  on  !  " 

He  was  driven  on,  and  other  carriages  came  whirling  by 
in  quick  succession  ;  the  Minister,  the  State-Projector,  the 
Farmer-General,  the  Doctor,  the  Lawyer,  the  Ecclesiastic,  the 
Grand  Opera,  the  comedy,  the  whole  Fancy  Ball  in  a  bright 
continuous  flow,  came  whirling  by.  The  rats  had  crept  out 
of  their  holes  to  look  on,  and  they  remained  looking  on  for 
hours  ;  soldiers  and  police  often  passing  between  them  and 
the  spectacle,  and  making  a  barrier  behind  which  they  slunk, 
and  through  which  they  peeped.  The  father  had  long  ago 
taken  up  his  bundle  and  hidden  himself  away  with  it,  when 
the  women  who  had  tended  the  bundle  while  it  lay  on  the 
base  of  the  fountain,  sat  there  watching  the  running  of  tho 


MONSEIGNEUR  IN  THE  COUNTRY, 


water  and  the  rolling  of  the  Fancy  Ball — when  the  one  woman 
who  had  stood  conspicuous,  knitting,  still  knitted  on  with  the 
steadfastness  of  Fate.  The  water  of  the  fountain  ran,  the 
swift  river  ran,  the  day  ran  into  evening,  so  much  life  in  the 
city  ran  into  death  according  to  rule,  time  and  tide  waited  for 
no  man,  the  rats  were  sleeping  close  together  in  their  dark 
lioles  again,  the  Fancy  Ball  was  lighted  up  at  supper,  all 
things  ran  their  course. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MONSEIGNEUR  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  landscape,  with  the  corn  bright  in  it,  but  not 
abundant.  Patches  of  poor  rye  where  corn  should  have  been, 
patches  of  poor  peas  and  beans,  patches  of  most  coarse  vege- 
table substitutes  for  wheat.  On  inanimate  nature,  as  on  the 
men  and  women  who  cultivated  it,  a  prevalent  tendency  tow- 
ards an  appearance  of  vegetating  unwillingly — a  dejected 
disposition  to  give  up,  and  wither  away. 

Monsieur  the  Marquis  in  his  travelling  carriage  (which 
might  have  been  lighter),  conducted  by  four  post-horses  and 
two  postilions,  fagged  up  a  steep  hill.  A  blush  on  the  coun- 
tenance of  Monsieur  the  Marquis  was  no  impeachment  of  his 
high  breeding  ;  it  was  not  from  within  ;  it  was  occasioned  by 
^n  external  circumstance  beyond  his  control — the  setting 
Kun. 

The  sunset  struck  so  brilliantly  into  the  travelling  carriage 
when  it  gained  the  hill-top  that  its  occupant  was  steeped  in 
crimson.  "  It  will  die  out,''  said  Monsieur  the  Marquis, 
glancing  at  his  hands  "  directly." 

In  effect,  the  sun  was  so  low  that  it  dipped  at  the  moment. 
When  the  heavy  drag  had  been  adjusted  to  the  wheel,  and 
the  carriage  slid  down  hill,  with  a  cinderous  smell,  in  a  cloud 
of  dust,  the  red  glow  departed  quickly  ;  the  sun  and  the  Mar- 
quis going  down  together,  there  was  no  glow  left  when  the 
drag  was  taken  off. 

But  there  remained  a  broken  country,  bold  and  open,  a 
little  village  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  a  broad  sweep  and  rise 


io8 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


beyond  it,  a  church-tower^  a  windmill,  a  forest  for  the  chase, 
and  a  crag  with  a  fortress  on  it  used  as  a  prison.  Round  upon 
all  these  darkening  objects  as  the  night  drew  on,  the  Mar- 
quis looked,  with  the  air  of  one  who  was  coming  near  home. 

The  village  had  its  one  poor  street,  with  its  poor  brewery, 
poor  tannery,  poor  tavern,  poor  stable-yard  for  relays  of  post- 
horses,  poor  fountain,  all  usual  poor  appointments.  It  had 
its  poor  people  too.  All  its  people  were  poor,  and  many  of 
'them  were  sitting  at  their  doors,  shredding  spare  onions  and 
the  like  for  supper,  while  many  were  at  the  fountain,  washing 
leaves,  and  grasses,  and  any  such  small  yieldings  of  the  earth 
that  could  be  eaten.  Expressive  signs  of  what  made  them 
poor,  were  not  wanting  ]  the  tax  for  the  state,  the  tax^for  the 
church,  the  tax  for  the  lord,  tax  local  and  tax  general,  were  to 
be  paid  here  and  to  be  paid  there,  according  ^to  solemn  in- 
scription in  the  little  village,  until  the  wonder  was,  that  there 
was  any  village  left  unswallowed. 

Few  children  were  to  be  seen,  and  no  dogs.  As  to  the 
men  and  women,  their  choice  on  earth  was  stated  in  the  pros- 
pect— Life  on  the  lowest  terms  that  could  sustain  it,  down  in 
the  little  village  under  the  mill ;  or  captivity  and  Death  in  the 
dominant  prison  on  the  crag. 

Heralded  by  a  courier  in  advance,  and  by  the  cracking  of 
his  postilion's  whips,  which  twined  snake-like  about  their 
heads  in  the  evening  air,  as  if  he  came  attended  by  the  Furies, 
Monsieur  the  Marquis  drew  up  in  his  travelling  carriage  at 
the  posting-house  gate.  It  was  hard  by  the  fountain,  and  the 
peasants  suspended  their  operations  to  look  at  him.  He 
looked  at  them,  and  saw  in  them,  without  knowing  it,  the  slow 
sure  filing  down  of  misery-worn  face  and  figure,  that  was  to 
make  the  meagreness  of  Frenchmen  an  English  superstition 
which  should  survive  the  truth  through  the  best  part  of  a  hun- 
dred years. 

Monsieur  the  Marquis  cast  his  eyes  over  the  submissive 
faces  that  drooped  before  him,  as  the  like  of  himself  had 
drooped  before  Monseigneur  of  the  Court — only  the  difference 
was,  that  these  faces  drooped  merely  to  suffer  and  not  to  pro- 
pitiate— when  a  grizzled  mender  of  the  roads  joined  the  group. 

"  Bring  me  hither  that  fellow !  "  said  the  Marquis  to  the 
courier. 

The  fellow  was  brought,  cap  in  hand,  and  the  other  fellows 
closed  round  to  look  and  listen,  in  the  manner  of  the  peopli 
at  the  ^aris  fountain. 


MONSEIGNEUR  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 


109 


"  I  passed  you  on  the  road  ? 

"  Monseigneur,  it  is  true.  I  had  the  honor  of  being  passed 
on  the  road." 

"  Coming  up  the  hill,  and  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  both  ? 

"  Monseigneur,  it  is  true." 

"  What  did  you  look  at,  so  fixedly  ?  " 

"  Monseigneur,  I  looked  at  the  man." 

lie  stooped  a  little,  and  with  his  tattered  blue  cap  pointed 
under  the  carriage.  All  his  fellows  stooped  to  look  under  the 
carriage. 

What  man,  pig  ?    And  why  look  there  ?  " 
"  Pardon,  Monseigneur  ;  he  swung  by  the  chain  of  the  shoe 
— the  drag." 

"  Who  1 "  demanded  the  traveller. 
"  Monseigneur,  the  man." 

"  May  the  Devil  carry  away  these  idiots  !     How  do  you 
ca]\  the  man  ?    You  know  all  the  men  of  this  part  of  the  coun- 
•try.    Who  was  he  ?  " 

"  Your  clemency,  Monseigneur  !  He  was  not  of  this  part 
of  the  country.    Of  all  the  days  of  my  life,  I  never  saw  him." 

"  Swinging  by  the  chain  ?    To  be  suifocated  t  " 
With  your  gracious  permission,  that  was  the  wonder  of 
it,  Monseigneur.    His  head  hanging  over — like  this  !  " 

He  turned  himself  sideways  to  the  carriage,  and  leaned 
back,  with  his  face  thrown  up  to  the  sky,  and  his  head  hanging 
down;  then  recovered  himself,  fumbled  with  his  cap,  and 
made  a  bow. 

"  What  was  he  like  ?  " 

"  Monseigneur,  he  was  whiter  than  the  miller.  All  covered 
with  dust,  white  as  a  spectre,  tall  as  a  spectre  !  " 

The  picture  produced  an  immense  sensation  in  the  little 
crowd  ;  but  all  eyes,  without  comparing  notes  with  other  eyes, 
looked  at  Monsieur  the  Marquis.  Perhaps,  to  observe  whether 
he  had  any  spectre  on  his  conscience. 

"  Truly  you  did  well,"  said  the  Marquis,  felicitously  sensi- 
ble that  such  vermin  v/ere  not  to  ruffle  him,  "  to  see  a  thief 
accompanying  my  carriage,  and  not  open  that  great  mouth  of 
yours.    Bah  !    Put  him  aside.  Monsieur  Gabelle  !  " 

Monsieur  Gabelle  was  the  Postmaster,  and  some  other 
taxing  functionary  united  ;  he  had  come  out  with  great  obse* 
quiousness  to  assist  at  ^  -  *  examination,  and  had  held  the  ex- 
amined by  the  drapery  of  his  arm  in  an  official  manner. 

"  Bah  I    Go  aside  1 "  said  Monsieur  Gabelle. 


/ 

no  A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 

"  Lay  hands  on  this  stranger  if  he  seeks  to  lodge  in  youl 
village  to-night,  and  be  sure  that  his  business  is  honest, 
Gabelle." 

Monseigneur,  I  am  flattered  to  devote  myse/f  to  your  or- 
ders." 

"  Did  he  run  away,  fellow  ? — where  is  that  Accursed  ?  " 

The  accursed  was  already  under  the  carriage  with  some 
half-dozen  particular  friends,  pointing  out  the  chain  with  his 
•blue  cap.  Some  half-dozen  other  particular  friends  promptly 
hauled  him  out,  and  presented  him  breathless  to  Monsieur 
the  Marquis. 

"  Did  the  man  run  away.  Dolt,  when  we  stopped  for  the 
drag  ? " 

"  Monseigneur,  he  precipitated  himself  over  the  hill-side, 
head  first,  as  a  person  plunges  into  the  river." 
"  See  to  it,  Gabelle.    Go  on  !  " 

The  half-dozen  who  were  peering  at  the  chain  were  still 
among  the  wheels,  like  sheep  ;  the  wheels  turned  so  suddenly  * 
that  they  were  lucky  to  save  their  skins  and  bones  ;  they  had 
very  little  else  to  save,  or  they  might  not  have  been  so  fortu- 
nate. 

The  burst  with  which  the  carriage  started  out  of  the  village 
and  up  the  rise  beyond,  was  soon  checked  by  the  steepness  of 
the  hill.  Gradually,  it  subsided  to  a  foot  pace,  swinging  and 
lumbering  upward  among  the  many  sweet  scents  of  a  summer 
night.  The  postilions,  with  a  thousand  gossamer  gnats  circling 
about  them  in  lieu  of  the  Furies,  quietly  mended  the  points  to 
the  lashes  of  their  whips  ;  the  valet  walked  by  the  horses  ;  the 
courier  was  audible,  trotting  on  ahead  into  the  dim  distance. 

At  the  steepest  point  of  the  hill  there  was  a  little  burial- 
ground,  with  a  Cross  and  a  new  large  figure  of  Our  Saviour 
on  it ;  it  was  a  poor  figure  in  wood,  done  by  some  inexperi- 
enced rustic  carver,  but  he  had  studied  the  figure  from  tlie 
life — his  own  life,  maybe — for  it  was  dreadfully  spare  and 
thin. 

To  this  distressful  emblem  of  a  great  distress  that  had 
long  been  grcAving  worse,  and  was  not  at  its  worst,  a  woman 
was  kneeling.  She  turned  her  head  as  the  carriage  came  up 
to  her,  rose  quickly,  and  presented  herself  at  the  carriage- 
door. 

It  is  you,  Monseigneur  !    Monseigneur,  a  petition." 
With  an  exclamation  of  impatience,  but  with  his  unchange 
able  face,  Monseigneur  looked  out. 


MONSEIGNEUR  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 


Ill 


"  How,  then  !    What  is  it  ?    Always  petitions  !  " 

"  Monseigneur.     P'or  the  love  of  the  great  God !  M3; 

husband,  the  forester/' 

What  of  your  husband,  the  forester  ?    Always  the  same 

with  you  people.    He  cannot  pay  something  ? 

"  He  has  paid  all,  Monseigneur.    He  is  dead.'' 

"  Well !    He  is  quiet.    Can  I  restore  him  to  you  1 " 

"  Alas,  no,  Monseigneur  !    But  he  lies  yonder,  under  a 

iittle  heap  of  poor  grass." 
"  Well  1  " 

"  Monseigneur,  there  are  so  many  little  heaps  of  poor 
grass  " 

Again  well  t  " 

0  She  looked  an  old  woman,  but  was  young.  Her  manner 
was  one  of  passionate  grief ;  by  turns  she  clasped  her  veinous 
and  knotted  hands  together  with  wild  energy,  and  laid  one  of 
them  on  the  carriage-door — tenderly,  caressingly,  as  if  it  had 
been  a  human  breast,  and  could  be  expected  to  feel  the  ap- 
pealing touch. 

"  Monseigneur,  hear  me  !  Monseigneur,  hear  my  petition  ! 
My  husband  died  of  want ;  so  many  die  of  want ;  so  many 
more  will  die  of  want." 

"  Again,  well  1    Can  I  feed  them  ?  " 

"  Monseigneur,  the  good  God  knows  ;  but  I  don't  ask  it 
My  petition  is,  that  a  morsel  of  stone  or  wood,  with  my  hus- 
band's name,  may  be  placed  over  him  to  show  where  he  lies. 
Otherwise,  the  place  will  be  quickly  forgotten,  it  will  never  be 
found  when  I  am  dead  of  the  same  malady,  I  shall  be  laid 
under  some  other  heap  of  poor  grass.  Monseigneur,  they  are 
r>o  many,  they  increase  so  fast,  there  is  so  much  want.  Mon- 
seigneur !    Monseigneur  !  " 

The  valet  had  put  her  away  from  the  door,  the  carriage 
liad  broken  into  a  brisk  trot,  the  postilions  had  quickened 
the  pace,  she  was  left  far  behind,  and  Monseigneur,  again  es- 
corted by  the  furies,  was  rapidly  diminishing  the  league  or 
two  of  distance  that  remained  between  him  and  his  chateau. 

The  sweet  scents  of  the  summer  night  rose  all  around  him, 
and  rose,  as  the  rain  falls,  impartially,  on  the  dusty,  ragged, 
and  toil-worn  group  at  the  fountain  not  far  away ;  to  whom 
the  mender  of  roads,  with  the  aid  of  the  blue  cap  without 
which  he  was  nothing,  still  enlarged  upon  his  man  like  a  spec- 
tre, as  long  as  they  could  bear  it.  By  degrees,  as  they  could 
bear  no  more,  they  dropped  off  one  by  one,  and  lights  twink' 


112 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


led  in  little  casements  ;  which  lights,  as  the  casements  dark 
ened,  and  more  stars  came  out,  seemed  to  have  shot  up  into 
the  sky  instead  of  having  been  extinguished. 

The  shadow  of  a  large  high-roofed  house,  and  of  many 
overhanging  trees,  w^as  upon  Monsieur  the  Marquis  by  that 
time  ;  and  the  shadow  was  exchanged  for  the  light  of  a  flam 
beau,  as  his  carriage  stopped,  and  the  great  door  of  his 
chateau  was  opened  to  him. 

^'  Monsieur  Charles,  whom  I  expect ;  is  he  arrived  from 
England  V 

"  Monseigneur,  not  yet.'' 


CHAPTER  IX. 
THE  Gorgon's  head 

It  was  a  heavy  mass  of  building,  that  chateau  of  Monsieur 
the  Marquis,  with  a  large  stone  court-yard  before  it,  and  two 
stone  sweeps  of  staircase  meeting  in  a  stone  terrace  before 
the  principal  door.  A  stony  business  altogether,  with  heavy 
stone  balustrades,  and  stone,  urns,  and  stone  flowers,  and 
stone  faces  of  men,  and  stone  heads  of  lions,  in  all  directions. 
As  if  the  Gorgon's  head  had  surveyed  it,  when  it  was  finished, 
two  centuries  ago. 

Up  the  broad  flight  of  shallow  steps.  Monsieur  the  Mar- 
quis, flambeau  preceded,  went  from  his  carriage,  sufficiently 
disturbing  the  darkness  to  elicit  loud  remonstrance  from  an 
owl  in  the  roof  of  the  great  pile  of  stable  building  away  among 
the  trees.  All  else  was  so  quiet  that  the  flambeau  carried  up 
the  steps,  and  the  other  flambeau  held  at  the  great  door,  burnt 
as  if  they  were  in  a  close  room  of  state,  instead  of  being  in 
the  open  night-air.  Other  sound  than  the  owl's  voice  there 
was  none,  save  the  falling  of  a  fountain  into  its  stone  basin  : 
for,  it  was  one  of  those  dark  nights  that  hold  their  breath 
by  the  hour  together,  and  then  heave  a  long  low  sigh  and  hold 
their  breath  again. 

The  great  door  clanged  behind  him,  and  Monsieur  the 
Marquis  crossed  a  hall  grim  with  certain  old  boar-spears, 
swords,  and  knives  of  the  chase  ;  grimmer  with  certain  heavy 
riding-rods  and  riding-whips,  of  which  many  a  peasant,  gone 


THE  GORGON'S  HEAD, 


to  his  benefactor  Death,  had  felt  the  weight  when  his  lord  was 
angry. 

Avoiding  the  larger  rooms,  which  were  dark  and  made  fast 
for  the  night.  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  with  his  flambeau-bearer 
going  on  before,  went  up  the  staircase  to  a  door  in  a  corridor. 
This  thrown  open,  admitted  him  to  his  own  private  apartment 
of  three  rooms :  his  bed-chamber  and  two  others.  High 
vaulted  rooms  with  cool  uncarpeted  floors,  great  dogs  upon 
the  hearths  for  the  burning  of  wood  in  winter  time,  and  all 
luxuries  befitting  the  state  of  a  marquis  in  a  luxurious  age  and 
country.  The  fashion  of  the  last  Louis  but  one,  of  the  line 
that  was  never  to  break — the  fourteenth  Louis — was  con- 
spicuous in  their  rich  furniture ;  but,  it  was  diversified  by 
many  objects  that  were  illustrations  of  old  pages  in  the  history 
of  France. 

A  supper-table  was  laid  for  two,  in  the  third  of  the  rooms ; 
a  round  room,  in  one  of  the  chateau's  four  extinguisher-topped 
towers.  A  small  lofty  room,  with  its  wmdow  wide  open,  and 
the  wooden  jalousie-blinds  closed,  so  that  the  dark  night  only 
showed  in  slight  horizontal  lines  of  black,  alternating  with 
their  broad  lines  of  stone  color. 

"  My  nephevv^,"  said  the  Marquis,  glancing  at  the  supper 
preparation  j  "they  said  he  was  not  arrived.'' 

Nor  was  he  ;  but,  he  had  been  expected  with  Monseigneur. 

"  Ah !  It  is  not  probable  he  will  arrive  to-night ;  never- 
theless, leave  the  table  as  it  is.  I  shall  be  ready  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour." 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Monseigneur  was  ready,  and  sat 
down  alone  to  his  sumptuous  and  choice  supper.  His  chair 
was  opposite  to  the  window,  and  he  had  taken  his  soup,  and 
was  raising  his  glass  of  Bordeaux  to  his  lips,  when  he  put  it 
down. 

"What  is  that  ?  "  he  calmly  asked,  looking  with  attention 
at  the  horizontal  lines  of  black  and  stone  color. 
"  Monseigneur  ?    That  ?  " 
"  Outside  the  blinds.    Open  the  blinds." 
It  was  done. 
"Well?" 

"  Monseigneur,  it  is  nothmg.  The  trees  and  the  night  are 
all  that  are  here." 

The  servant  who  spoke,  had  thrown  the  blinds  wide,  had 
looked  out  into  the  vacant  darkness,  and  stood,  with  that 
blank  behind  him  looking  round  for  instructions. 


114 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


"  Good/'  said  the  imperturbable  master.  Close  them 
again.'' 

That  was  done  too,  and  the  Marquis  went  on  ^ith  his  sup- 
per.  He  was  half  way  through  it,  when  he  again  stopped  with 
his  glass  in  his  hand,  hearing  the  sound  of  wheels.  It  came 
on  briskly,  and  came  up  to  the  front  of  the  chateau. 

"  Ask  who  is  arrived." 

It  was  the  nephew  of  Monseigneur.  He  had  been  some 
few  leagues  behind  Monseigneur,  early  in  the  afternoon.  He 
had*  diminished  the  distance  rapidly,  but  not  so  rapidly  as  to 
come  up  with  Monseigneur  on  the  road.  He  had  heard  of 
Monseigneur,  at  the  posting  houses,  as  being  before  him. 

He  was  to  be  told  (said  Monseigneur)  that  supper  awaited 
him  then  and  there,  and  that  he  was  prayed  to  come  to  it. 
In  a  little  while  he  came.  He  had  been  known  in  England  as 
Charles  Darnay. 

Monseigneur  received  him  in  a  courtly  manner,  but  they 
did  not  shake  hands. 

"  You  left  Paris  yesterday,  sir  ?  "  he  said  to  Monseigneur, 
as  he  took  his  seat  at  table. 

"  Yesterday.    And  you  ?  " 

"  I  come  direct." 

"  From  London 

"  Yes." 

"  You  have  been  a  long  time  coming,"  said  the  Marquis, 
with  a  smile. 

"  On  the  contrary  ;  I  come  direct." 

"  Pardon  me  !  I  mean,  not  a  long  time  on  the  journey  ;  a 
long  time  intending  the  journey." 

"  I  have  been  detained  by  " — the  nephew  stopped  a  mo- 
ment in  his  answer — various  business." 

Without  doubt,"  said  the  polished  uncle. 

So  long  as  a  servant  was  present,  no  other  words  passed 
between  them.  When  coffee  had  been  served  and  they  were 
alone  together,  the  nephew,  looking  at  the  uncle  and  meeting 
the  eyes  of  the  face  that  was  like  a  fine  mask,  opened  a  con- 
versation. 

"  I  have  come  back,  sir,  as  you  anticipate,  pursuing  the 
object  that  took  me  away.  It  carried  me  into  great  and  unex- 
pected peril ;  but  it  is  a  sacred  object,  and  if  it  had  carried 
me  to  death  I  hope  it  would  have  sustained  me." 

"  Not  to  death,"  said  the  uncle  ;  "  it  is  not  necessary  to 
say,  to  death  " 


THE  GORGON'S  HEAD. 


"  I  doubt,  sir/'  returned  the  nephew,  "  whether,  if  it  had 
carried  me  to  the  utmost  brink  of  death,  you  would  have  cared 
to  stop  me  there." 

The  deepened  marks  in  the  nose,  and  the  lengthening  ot 
the  fine  straight  lines  in  the  cruel  face,  looked  ominous  as  to 
that ;  the  uncle  made  a  graceful  gesture  of  protest,  which  was 
so  clearly  a  slight  form  of  good  breeding  that  it  was  not 
reassuring. 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  pursued  the  nephew,  "for  anything  I  know, 
you  may  have  expressly  worked  to  give  a  more  suspicious  ap- 
pearance to  the  suspicious  circumstances  that  surrounded  me." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  said  the  uncle,  pleasantly. 

"  But,  however  that  may  be,"  resumed  the  nephew,  glanc- 
ing  at  him  with  deep  distrust,  "  I  know  that  your  diplomacy 
would  stop  me  by  any  means,  and  would  know  no  scruple  a.s 
to  means." 

"  My  friend,  I  told  you  so,"  said  the  uncle,  with  a  fine 
pulsation  in  the  two  marks.  "  Do  me  the  favor  to  recall  that 
I  told  you  so,  long  ago." 

"  I  recall  it." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  Marquis — very  sweetly  indeed. 

His  tone  lingered  in  the  air,  almost  like  the  tone  of  a 
musical  instrument. 

"  In  effect,  sir,"  pursued  the  nephew,  "  I  believe  it  to  be 
at  once  your  bad  fortune,  and  my  good  fortune,  that  has  kept 
me  out  of  a  prison  in  France  here." 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand,"  returned  the  uncle,  sipping 
his  coffee.    "  Dare  I  ask  you  to  explain  t  " 

"  I  believe  that  if  you  were  not  in  disgrace  with  the  Court, 
and  had  not  been  overshadowed  by  that  cloud  for  years  past, 
a  lettre  de  cachet  would  have  sent  me  to  some  fortress  indefi- 
nitely." 

"  It  is  possible,"  said  the  uncle,  with  great  calmness. 
"  For  the  honor  of  the  family,  I  could  even  resolve  to  incom- 
mode you  to  that  extent.    Pray  excuse  me  !  " 

I  perceive  that,  happily  for  me,  the  Reception  of  the 
day  before  yesterday  was,  as  usual,  a  cold  one,"  observed  the 
nephew. 

"  I  would  not  say  happily,  my  friend,"  returned  the  uncle, 
with  refined  politeness ;  "  I  would  not  be  sure  of  that.  A 
good  opportunity  for  consideration,  surrounded  by  the  advan- 
tages of  solitude,  might  influence  your  destiny  to  far  greater 
advantage  than  you  influence  it  for  yourself.    But  it  is  useless 


7l6 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


to  discuss  the  question.  I  am,  as  you  say,  at  a  disadvantage. 
These  little  instruments  of  correction,  these  gentle  aids  to  the 
power  and  honor  of  families,  these  slight  favors  that  might  so 
incommode  you,  are  only  to  be  obtained  by  interest  and  impor^ 
tunity.  They  are  sought  by  so  many,  and  they  are  granted 
(comparatively)  to  so  few  !  It  used  not  to  be  so,  but  France 
in  all  such  things  is  changed  for  the  worse.  Our  not  remote 
ancestors  held  the  right  of  life  and  death  over  the  surround- 
ing vulgar.  From  this  room,  many  such  dogs  have  been  taken 
out  to  be  hanged  ;  in  the  next  room  (my  bedroom),  one  fellow, 
to  our  knowledge,  was  poniarded  on  the  spot  for  professing 
some  insolent  delicacy  respecting  his  daughter — his  daughter  ? 
We  have  lost  many  privileges ;  a  new  philosophy  has  become 
the  mode  ;  and  the  assertion  of  our  station,  in  these  days, 
might  (I  do  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  would,  but  might)  cause 
us  real  inconvenience.    All  very  bad,  very  bad  ! " 

The  Marquis  took  a  gentle  little  pinch  of  snuff,  and  shook 
his  head  ;  as  elegantly  despondent  as  he  could  becomingly 
be  of  a  country  still  containing  himself,  that  great  means  of 
regeneration. 

We  have  so  asserted  our  station,  both  in  the  old  time 
and  in  the  modern  time  also,"  said  the  nephew,  gloomily, 
that  I  believe  our  name  to  be  more  detested  than  any  name 
in  France." 

Let  us  hope  so,"  said  the  uncle.  "  Detestation  of  the 
high  is  the  involuntary  homage  of  the  low." 

There  is  not,"  pursued  the  nephew,  in  his  former  tone, 
"  a  face  I  can  look  at,  in  all  this  country  round  about  us, 
which  looks  at  me  with  any  deference  on  it  but  the  dark  def- 
erence of  fear  and  slavery." 

"  A  compliment,"  said  the  Marquis,  "  to  the  grandeur  of 
the  family,  merited  by  the  manner  in  which  the  family  has 
sustained  its  grandeur.  Hah  !  "  And  he  took  another  gen- 
tle little  pinch  of  snuff,  and  lightly  crossed  his  legs. 

But,  when  his  nephew,  leaning  an  elbow  on  the  table, 
covered  his  eyes  thoughtfully  and  dejectedly  with  his  hand, 
the  fine  mask  looked  at  him  sideways  with  a  stronger  concen- 
tration of  keenness,  closeness,  and  dislike,  than  was  comport- 
able  with  its  wearer's  assumption  of  indifference. 

Repression  is  the  only  lasting  philosophy.  The  dark 
deference  of  fear  and  slavery,  my  friend,"  observed  the  Mar- 
quis, will  keep  the  dogs  obedient  to  the  whip,  as  long  as  this 
roof,"  looking  up  to  it,    shuts  out  the  sky." 


THE  GORGON'S  HEAD, 


117 


That  might  not  be  so  long  as  the  Marquis  supposed.  If 
a  picture  of  the  chateau  as  it  was  to  be  a  very  few  years  hence, 
and  of  fifty  Uke  it  as  they  too  were  to  be  a  very  few  years 
hence,  could  have  been  shown  to  him  that  night,  he  might 
have  been  at  a  loss  to  claim  his  own  from  the  ghastly,  fire- 
charred,  plunder-wrecked  ruins.  As  for  the  roof  he  vaunted, 
he  might  have  found  that  shutting  out  the  sky  in  a  new  way 
— to  wit,  for  ever,  from  the  eyes  of  the  bodies  into  which  its 
lead  was  fired,  out  of  the  barrels  of  a  hundred  thousand 
muskets. 

"  Meanwhile,"  said  the  Marquis,  "  I  will  preserve  the 
honor  and  repose  of  the  family,  if  you  will  not.  But  you 
must  be  fatigued.  Shall  we  terminate  our  conference  for  the 
night  ? " 

"  A  moment  more.'' 

"  An  hour,  if  you  please." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  nephew,  "  we  have  done  wrong,  and  are 
reaping  the  fruits  of  wrong." 

"  We  have  done  wrong  ?  "  repeated  the  Marquis,  with  an 
inquiring  smile,  and  delicately  pointing,  first  to  his  nephew, 
then  to  himself. 

"  Our  family  ;  our  honorable  family,  whose  honor  is  of  so 
much  account  to  both  of  us,  in  such  different  ways.  Even  in 
my  father's  time,  we  did  a  world  of  wrong,  injuring  every 
human  creature  who  came  between  us  and  our  pleasure,  what- 
ever it  was.  Why  need  I  speak  of  my  father's  time,  when  it 
is  equally  yours  ?  Can  I  separate  my  father's  twin-brother, 
joint  inheritor,  and  next  successor,  from  himself.^  " 

"  Death  has  done  that !  "  said  the  J^arquis. 

"  And  has  left  me,"  answered  the  nephew,  "bound  to  a 
system  that  is  frightful  to  me,  responsible  for  it,  but  power- 
less in  it ;  seeking  to  execute  the  last  request  of  my  dear 
mother's  lips,  and  obey  the  last  look  of  my  dear  mother's  eyes, 
which  implored  me  to  have  mercy  and  to  redress  ;  and  tortured 
by  seeking  assistance  and  power  in  vain." 

"  Seeking  them  from  me,  my  nephew,"  said  tho  Marquis, 
touching  him  on  the  breast  with  his  forefinger — they  were 
now  standing  by  the  hearth — "you  will  for  ever  seek  them  in 
vain,  be  assured." 

Every  fine  straight  line  in  the  clear  whiteness  of  his  face,' 
was  cruelly,  craftily,  and  closely  compressed,  while  he  stood 
looking  quietly  at  his  nephew,  with  his  snufi-box  in  his  hand. 
Once  again  he  touched  him  on  the  breast  as  though  his  finger 


ii8 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


were  the  fine  point  of  a  small  sword,  with  which,  in  delicate 
finesse,  he  ran  him  through  the  body,  and  said, 

"  My  friend,  I  will  die,  perpetuating  the  system  undei 
which  I  have  lived." 

When  he  had  said  it,  he  took  a  culminating  pinch  of  snuff, 
and  put  his  box  in  his  pocket. 

"Better  to  be  a  rational  creature,"  he  added  then,  aftei 
ringing  a  small  bell  on  the  table,  "  and  accept  your  natural 
destiny.    But  you  are  lost,  Monsieur  Charles,  I  see." 

"This  property  and  France  are  lost  to  me,"  said  the 
nephew,  sadly ;  "  I  renounce  them." 

"  Are  they  both  yours  to  renounce  ?  France  may  be,'  but 
is  the  property  ?  It  is  scarcely  worth  mentioning  ;  but,  is  it 
yet  ? " 

"  I  had  no  intention,  in  the  words  I  used,  to  claim  it  yet. 

If  it  passed  to  me  from  you,  to-morrow  " 

"  Which  I  have  the  vanity  to  hope  is  not  probable." 
" — or  twenty  years  hence  " 

"You  do  me  too  much  honor,"  said  the  Marquis;  "still,  I 
prefer  that  supposition." 

"  — I  would  abandon  it,  and  live  otherwise  and  elsewhere. 
It  is  a  little  to  relinquish.  What  is  it  but  a  wilderness  of 
misery  and  ruin  !  " 

"  Hah  1 "  said  the  Marquis,  glancing  round  the  luxurious 
room. 

"  To  the  eye  it  is  fair  enough,  here ;  but  seen  in  its  in- 
tegrity, under  the  sky  and  by  the  daylight,  it  is  a  crumbling 
tower  of  waste,  mismanagement,  extortion,  debt,  mortgage, 
oppression,  hunger,  nakedness,  and  suffering." 

"  Hah  !  "  said  the  Marquis  again,  in  a  well-satisfied  manner.  - 
"  If  it  ever  becomes  mine,  it  shall  be  put  into  some  hands 
better  qualified  to  free  it  slowly  (if  such  a  thing  is  possible) 
from  the  weight  that  drags  it  down,  so  that  the  miserable 
people  who  cannot  leave  it  and  who  have  been  long  wrung  to 
the  last  point  of  endurance,  may,  in  another  generation,  suffer 
less  ;  but  it  is  not  for  me.  There  is  a  curse  on  it,  and  on  all 
this  land." 

"  And  you  ?  "  said  the  uncle.  "  Forgive  my  curiosity  ; 
do  you,  under  your  new  philosophy,  graciously  intend  to 
live  > " 

"  I  must  do,  to  live,  what  others  of  my  countrymen,  even 
with  nobility  at  their  backs,  may  have  to  do  some  day— ' 
work." 


THE  GORGON'S  HEAD, 


^'  In  England,  for  example  ?  " 

"  Yes.  The  family  honor,  sir,  is  safe  from  me  in  this  coun- 
try. The  family  name  can  suffer  from  me  in  no  other,  for  I 
bear  it  in  no  other." 

The  ringing  of  the  bell  has  caused  the  adjoining  bed- 
chamber to  be  lighted.  It  now  shone  brightly,  through  the 
door  of  communication.  The  Marquis  looked  that  way,  and 
listened  for  the  retreating  step  of  his  valet. 

England  is  very  attractive  to  you,  seeing  how  indifferently^  - 
you  have  prospered  there,"  he  observed  then,  turning  his 
calm  face  to  his  nephew  with  a  smile. 

"  I  have  already  said,  that  for  my  prospering  there,  I  am 
sensible  I  may  be  indebted  to  you,  sir.  For  the  rest,  it  is  my 
Refuge." 

"  They  say,  those  boastful  English,  that  it  is  the  Refuge  of 
many.  You  know*  a  compatriot  who  has  found  a  Refuge  there  ? 
A  Doctor  ? "  ^  •  - 

"Yes." 

"  With  a  daughter  ?  ' 
"Yes." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Marquis.    "You  are  fatigued.  Good- 
night !  " 

As  he  bent  his  head  in  his  most  courtly  manner,  there 
was  a  secrecy  in  his  smiling  face,  and  he  conveyed  an  air  of 
mystery  to  those  words,  which  struck  the  eyes  and  ears  of 
his  nephew  forcibly.  At  the  same  time,  the  thin  straight 
lines  of  the  setting  of  the  eyes,  and  the  thin  straight  lips,  and 
the  markings  in  the  nose,  curved  with  a  sarcasm  that  looked 
handsomely  diabolic. 

"  Yes,"  repeated  the  Marquis.  .  "  A  Doctor  with  a  daugh- 
ter. Yes.  So  commences  the  new  philosophy !  You  are 
fatigued.    Good-night ! " 

It  would  have  been  of  as  much  avail  to  interrogate  any 
stone  face  outside  the  chateau  as  to  interrogate  that  face  of 
his.  The  nephew  looked  at  him,  in  vain,  in  passing  on  to  the 
door. 

"  Good-night !  "  said  the  uncle.  "  I  look  to  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you  again  in  the  morning.  Good  repose  !  Light 
Monsieur  my  nephew  to  his  chamber  there  ! — And  burn  Mon- 
sieur my  nephew  in  his  bed,  if  you  will,"  he  added  to  himself, 
before  he  rang  his  little  bell  again,  and  summoned  his  valet 
to  his  own  bedroom. 

The  valet  '^^'^e  and  gone,  Monsieur  the  Marquis  walked 
G 


I20 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


to  and  fro  in  his  loose  cliamber-robe,  to  prepare  himself 
gently  for  sleep,  that  hot  still  night.  Rustling  about  the 
room,  his  softly-slippered  feet  making  no  noise  on  the  floor, 
he  moved  like  a  refined  tiger  : — looked  like  some  enchanted 
marquis  of  the  impenitently  wicked  sort,  in  story,  whose 
periodical  change  into  tiger  form  was  either  just  going  off,  or 
,  just  coming  on. 

He  moved  from  end  to  end  of  his  voluptuous  bedroom, 
looking  again  at  the  scraps  of  the  day's  journey  that  came 
unbidden  into  his  mind ;  the  slow  toil  up  the  hill  at  sunset, 
the  setting  sun,  the  descent,  the  mill,  the  prison  on  the  crag, 
the  little  village  in  the  hollow,  the  peasants  at  the  fountain, 
and  the  mender  of  roads  with  his  blue  cap  pointing  out  the 
chain  under  the  carriage.  That  fountain  suggested  the 
Paris  fountain,  the  little  bundle  lying  on  the  step,  the  women 
bending  over  it,  and  the  tall  man  with  his  arms  up,  crying, 
Dead  !  " 

"  I  am  cool  now,"  said  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  "  and  may 
go  to  bed.'' 

So,  leaving  only  one  light  burning  on  the  large  hearth,  he 
let  his  tliin  gauze  curtains  fall  around  him,  and  heard  the 
night  break  its  silence  with  a  long  sigh  as  he  composed  himself 
to  sleep. 

The  stone  faces  on  the  outer  walls  stared  blindly  at  the 
black  night  for  three  heavy  hours ;  for  three  heavy  hours,  the 
horses  in  the  stables  rattled  at  their  racks,  the  dogs  barked, 
and  the  owl  made  a  noise  with  very  little  resemblance  in  it 
to  the  noise  conventionally  assigned  to  the  owl  by  men-poets. 
But  it  is  the  obstinate  custom  of  such  creatures  hardly  ever 
to  say  what  is  set  down  for  them. 

For  three  heavy  hours,  the  stone  faces  of  the  chateau, 
lion  and  human,  stared  blindly  at  the  night.  Dead  darkness 
lay  on  all  the  landscape,  dead  darkness  added  its  own  hush 
to  the  hushing  dust  on  all  the  roads.  The  burial-place  had 
got  to  the  pass  that  its  little  heaps  of  poor  grass  were  undis- 
tinguishable  from  one  another ;  the  figure  on  the  Cross  might 
have  come  down,  for  anything  that  could  be  seen  of  it.  In 
the  village,  taxers  and  taxed  were  fast  asleep.  Dreaming, 
perhaps,  of  banquets,  as  the  starved  usually  do,  and  of  ease 
and  rest,  as  the  driven  slave  and  the  yoked  ox  may,  its  lean 
inhabitants  slept  soundly,  and  were  fed  and  freed. 

The  fountain  in  the  village  flowed  unseen  and  unheard, 
and  the  fountain  at  the  chateau  dropped  unseen  and  unheard 


THE  GORGON'S  HEAD. 


121 


^both  melting  away,  like  the  minutes  that  were  falling  from 
the  spring  of  Time — through  three  dark  hours.  Then,  the 
gray  water  of  both  began  to  be  ghostly  in  the  light,  and  the 
eyes  of  the  stone  faces  of  the  chateau  were  opened. 

Lighter  and  lighter,  until  at  last  the  sun  touched  the  tops 
of  the  still  trees,  and  poured  its  radiance  over  the  hill.  In 
the  glow,  the  water  o*f  the  chateau  fountain  seemed  to  turn  to 
blood,  and  the  stone  faces  crimsoned.  The  carol  of  the  birds 
was  loud  and  high,  and,  on  the  weather-beaten  sill  of  the  great 
window  of  the  bed-chamber  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  one 
little  bird  sang  its  sweetest  song  with  all  its  might.  At  this, 
the  nearest  stone  face  seemed  to  stare  amazed,  and,  with  open 
mouth  and  dropped  under-jaw,  looked  awe-stricken. 

Now,  the  sun  was  full  up,  and  movement  began  in  the  vil- 
lage. Casement  windows  opened,  crazy  doors  were  unbarred, 
and  people  came  forth  shivering — chilled,  as  yet,  by  the  new 
sweet  air.  Then  began  the  rarely  lightened  toil  of  the  day 
among  the  village  population.  Some,  to  the  fountain  ;  some, 
to  the  fields  ;  men  and  women  here,  to  dig  and  delve  ;  men 
and  women  there,  to  see  to  the  poor  live  stock,  and  lead  the 
bony  cows  out,  to  such  pasture  as  could  be  found  by  the  road- 
side. In  the  church  and  at  the  Cross,  a  kneeling  figure  or 
two  ;  attendant  on  the  latter  prayers,  the  led  cow,  trying  for  a 
breakfast  among  the  weeds  at  his  foot. 

The  chateau  awoke  later,  as  became  its  quality,  but  awok^ 
gradually  and  surely.  First,  the  lonely  boar-spears  and  knive«i 
of  the  chase  had  been  reddened  as  of  old ;  then,  had  gleamed 
trenchant  in  the  morning  sunshine  ;  now,  doors  and  windows 
were  thrown  open,  horses  in  their  stables  looked  round  over 
their  shoulders  at  the  light  and  freshness  pouring  in  at  door- 
ways, leaves  sparkled  and  rustled  at  iron-grated  windows,  dogs 
pulled  hard  at  their  chains,  and  reared  impatient  to  be  loosed. 

All  these  trivial  incidents  belonged  to  the  routine  of  life, 
and  the  return  of  morning.  Surely,  not  so  the  ringing  of  the 
great  bell  of  the  chateau,  nor  the  running  up  and  down  the 
stairs  ;  nor  the  hurried  figures  on  the  terrace  ;  nor  the  booting 
and  tramping  here  and  there  and  everywhere,  nor  the  quick 
saddling  of  horses  and  riding  away  } 

What  winds  conveyed  this  hurry  to  the  grizzled  mender  of 
roads,  already  at  work  on  the  hill-top  beyond  the  village,  with 
his  day's  dinner  (not  much  to  carry)  lying  in  a  bundle  that  it 
was  worth  no  crow's  while  to  peck  at,  on  a  heap  of  stones } 
Had  the  birds,  carrying  some  grains  of  it  to  a  distance. 


122 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


dropped  one  over  him  as  they  sow  chance  seeds  ?  Whethe? 
or  no,  the  mender  of  roads  ran,  on  the  sultry  morning,  as  ii 
for  his  Hfe,  down  the  hill,  knee-high  in  dust,  and  never  stopped 
till  he  got  to  the  fountain. 

All  the  people  of  the  village  were  at  the  fountain,  standing 
about  in  their  depressed  manner,  and  whispering  low,  but 
showing  no  other  emotions  than  grim  curiosity  and  surprise. 
The  led  cows,  hastily  brought  in  and  tethered  to  anything  that 
would  hold  them,  were  looking  stupidly  on,  or  lying  down 
chewing  the  cud  of  nothing  particularly  repaying  their  trouble, 
which  they  had  picked  up  in  their  interrupted  saunter.  Some 
of  the  people  of  the  chateau,  and  some  of  those  of  the  posting- 
house,  and  all  the  taxing  authorities,  were  armed  more  or  less, 
and  were  crowded  on  the  other  side  of  the  little  street  in  a  pur 
poseless  way,  that  was  highly  fraught  with  nothing.  Already, 
the  mender  of  roads  had  penetrated  into  the  midst  of  a  group 
of  fifty  particular  friends,  and  was  smiting  himself  in  the  breast 
with  his  blue  cap.  What  did  all  this  portend,  and  what  por- 
tended the  swift  hoisting-up  of  Monsieur  Gabelle  behind  a 
servant  on  horseback,  and  the  conveying  away  of  the  said 
Gabelle  (double-laden  though  the  horse  was),  at  a  gallop,  like 
a  new  version  of  the  German  ballad  of  Leonora? 

It  portended  that  there  was  one  stone  face  too  many,  up 
at  the  chateau. 

The  Gorgon  had  surveyed  the  building  again  in  the  night, 
and  had  added  the  one  stone  face  wanting  ;  the  stone  face  for 
which  it  had  waited  through  about  two  hundred  years. 

It  lay  back  on  the  pillow  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis.  It 
was  like  a  fine  mask,  suddenly  startled,  made  angry,  and  petri- 
fied. Driven  home  into  the  heart  of  the  stone  figure  attached 
to  it,  was  a  knife.  Round  its  hilt  was  a  frill  of  paper,  on 
which  was  scrawled  : 

"  Drive  him  fast  to  his  tomb.    This ^  from  Jacques." 


CHAPTER  X 

TWO  PROMISES. 

More  months,  to  the  number  of  twelve,  had  come  and 
gone,  and  Mr.  Charles  Darnay  was  established  in  England  as 
a  higher  teacher  of  the  French  language  who  was  conversant 


TWO  PROMISES. 


123 


with  French  hterature.  In  this  age,  he  would  have  been  a 
Professor;  in  that  age,  he  was  a  Tutor.  He  read  with  young 
men  who  could  find  any  leisure  and  interest  for  the  study  of  a 
living  tongue  spoken  all  over  the  world,  and  he  cultivated  a 
taste  for  its  stores  of  knowledge  and  fancy.  He  could  write 
of  them,  besides,  in  sound  English,  and  render  them  into 
sound  English.  Such  masters  were  not  at  that  time  easily 
found  ;  Princes  that  had  been,  and  Kings  that  were  to  be, 
v/ere  not  yet  of  the  Teacher  class,  and  no  ruined  nobility  had 
dropped  out  of  Tellson^s  ledgers,  to  turn  cooks  and  carpen- 
ters. As  a  tutor,  whose  attainments  made  the  student's  way 
unusually  pleasant  and  profitable,  and  as  an  elegant  trans- 
lator who  brought  something  to  his  work  besides  mere 
dictionary  knowledge,  young  Mr.  Darnay  soon  became  known 
and  encouraged.  He  w^as  well  acquainted,  moreover,  with 
the  circumstances  of  his  country,  and  those  were  of  ever-growl- 
ing interest.  So,  with  great  perseverance  and  untiring 
industry,  he  prospered. 

In  London,  he  had  expected  neither  to  walk  on  pavements 
of  gold,  nor  to  lie  on  beds  of  roses ;  if  he  had  had  any  such 
exalted  expectation,  he  would  not  have  prospered.  He  had 
expected  labor,  and  he  found  it,  and  did  it,  and  made  the  best 
of  it.    In  this,  his  prosperity  consisted. 

A  certain  portion  of  his  time  was  passed  at  Cambridge, 
where  he  read  with  undergraduates  as  a  sort  of  tolerated 
smuggler  who  drove  a  contraband  trade  in  European  languages, 
instead  of  conveying  Greek  and  Latin  through  the  Custom- 
house.   The  rest  of  his  time  he  passed  in  London. 

Now,  from  the  days  when  it  was  always  summer  in  Eden, 
to  these  days  when  it  is  mostly  winter  in  fallen  latitudes,  the 
world  of  a  man  has  invariably  gone  one  way — Charles  Darnay's 
way — the  way  of  the  love  of  a  woman. 

He  had  loved  Lucie  Manette  from  the  hour  of  his  danger. 
He  had  never  heard  a  sound  so  sweet  and  dear  as  the  sound 
of  her  compassionate  voice ;  he  had  never  seen  a  face  so  ten- 
derly beautiful,  as  hers  when  it  was  confronted  with  his  own 
on  the  edge  of  the  grave  that  had  been  dug  for  him.  But,  he 
had  not  yet  spoken  to  her  on  the  subject ;  the  assassination 
at  the  deserted  chateau  far  away  beyond  the  heaving  water 
and  the  long,  long,  dusty  roads — the  solid  stone  chateau 
which  had  itself  become  the  mere  mist  of  a  dream — had  been 
done  a  year,  and  he  had  never  yet,  by  so  much  as  a  single 
spoken  word,  disclosed  to  her  the  state  of  his  heart. 


124 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


That  he  had  his  reasons  for  this,  he  knew  full  well.  It 
was  again  a  summer  day  when,  lately  arrived  in  London,  from 
his  college  occupation,  he  turned  into  the  quiet  corner  in  Soho, 
bent  on  seeking  an  opportunity  of  opening  his-mind  to  Doctol 
Manette,  It  was  the  close  of  the  summer  day,  and  he  kneM 
Lucie  to  be  out  with  Miss  Pross. 

He  found  the  Doctor  reading  in  his  arm-chair  at  a  window. 
The  energy  which  had  at  once  supported  him  under  his  old 
sufferings  and  aggravated  their  sharpness,  had  been  gradually 
restored  to  him.  He  was  now  a  very  energetic  man  indeed, 
with  great  firmness  of  purpose,  strength  of  resolution,  and 
vigor  of  action.  In  his  recovered  energy  he  was  sometimes  a 
little  fitful  and  sudden,  as  he  had  at  first  been  in  the  exercise 
of  his  other  recovered  faculties  ;  but,  this  had  never  been  fre- 
quently observable,  and  had  grown  more  and  more  rare. 

He  studied  much,  slept  little,  sustained  a  great  deal  of 
fatigue  with  ease,  and  was  equably  cheerful.  To  him,  nov^^ 
entered  Charles  Darnay,  at  sight  of  whom  he  laid  aside  his 
book  and  held  out  his  hand. 

Charles  Darnay  !  I  rejoice  to  see  you.  We  have  been 
counting  on  your  return  these  three  or  four  days  past.  Mr. 
Stryver  and  Sydney  Carton  were  both  here  yesterday,  and 
both  made  you  out  to  be  more  than  due." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  them  for  their  interest  in  the  matter," 
he  answered,  a  little  coldly  as  to  them,  though  very  warmly 
as  to  the  Doctor.    "  Miss  Manette  " 

"  Is  well,"  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  stopped  short,  "  and  your 
return  will  delight  us  all.  She  has  gone  out  on  some  house- 
hold matters,  but  will  soon  be  home." 

"  Doctor  Manette,  I  knew  she  was  from  home.  I  took  the 
opportunity  of  her  being  from  home,  to  beg  to  speak  to  you." 

There  was  a  blank  silence. 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  the  Doctor,  with  evident  constraint.  "  Bring 
your  chair  here,  and  speak  on." 

He  complied  as  to  the  chair,  but  appeared  to  find  the 
speaking  on  less  easy. 

I  have  had  the  happiness.  Doctor  Manette,  of  being  so 
intimate  here,"  so  he  at  length  began,  "for  some  year  and  a 
half,  that  I  hope  the  topic  on  which  I  am  about  to  touch  may 
not  " 

He  was  stayed  by  the  Doctor's  putting  out  his  hand  to 
stop  him.  When  he  had  kept  it  so  a  little  while,  he  said, 
drawing  it  back  : 


TWO  PROMISES. 


"  Is  Lucie  the  topic  ?  " 
"  She  is." 

"  It  is  hard  for  me  to  speak  of  her  at  any  time.  It  is  very 
hard  for  me  to  hear  her  spoken  of  in  that  tone  of  yours, 
Charles  Darnay." 

"  It  is  a  tone  of  fervent  admiration,  true  homage,  and 
deep  love.  Doctor  Manette  !  "  he  said  deferentially. 

There  was  another  blank  silence  before  her  father  re- 
joined : 

"  I  believe  it.    I  do  you  justice ;  I  believe  it." 

His  constraint  was  so  manifest,  and  it  was  so  manifest, 
too,  that  it  originated  in  an  unwillingness  to  approach  the 
subject,  that  Charles  Darnay  hesitated. 

"Shall  I  go  on,  sir?" 

Another  blank. 

"  Yes,  go  on." 

"  You  anticipate  what  I  would  say,  though  you  cannot 
know  how  earnestly  I  say  it,  how  earnestly  I  feel  it,  without 
knowing  my  secret  heart,  and  the  hopes  and  fears  and  anxieties 
with  which  it  has  long  been  laden.  Dear  Doctor  Manette,  I 
love  your  daughter  fondly,  dearly,  disinterestedly,  devotedly. 
If  ever  there  were  love  in  the  world,  I  love  her.  You  have 
loved  yourself ;  let  your  old  love  speak  for  me  !  " 

The  Doctor  sat  with  his  face  turned  away,  and  his  eyes 
bent  on  the  ground.  At  the  last  words,  he  stretched  out  his 
hand  again,  hurriedly,  and  cried  : 

*^  Not  that,  sir  !  Let  that  be  !  I  adjure  you,  do  not  recall 
that !  " 

His  Qxy  was  so  like  a  cry  of  actual  pain,  that  it  rang  in 
Charles  Darnay's  ears  long  after  he  had  ceased.  He  motioned 
with  the  hand  he  had  extended,  and  it  seemed  to  be  an  appeal 
to  Darnay  to  pause.  The  latter  so  received  it,  and  remained 
silent. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,"  said  the  Doctor,  in  a  subdued  tone, 
after  some  moments.  "  I  do  not  doubt  your  loving  Lucie  ; 
you  may  be  satisfied  of  it." 

He  turned  towards  him  in  his  chair,  but  did  not  look  at 
him,  or  raise  his  eyes.  His  chin  dropped  upon  his  hand,  and 
his  white  hair  overshadowed  his  face  : 

"Have  you  spoken  to  Lucie  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Nor  written  ?  ^ 
Never." 


126 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


"  It  would  be  ungenerous  to  affect  not  to  know  that  yow 
self-denial  is  to  be  referred  to  your  consideration  for  her 
fathen    Her  father  thanks  you.'' 

He  offered  his  hand ;  but  his  eyes  did  not  go  with  it. 

"I  know,"  said  Darnay,  respectfully,  "how  can  I  fail  to 
know,  Doctor  Manette,  I  who  have  seen  you  together  from  day 
to  day,  that  between  you  and  Miss  Manette  there  is  an  affection 
so  unusual,  so  touching,  so  belonging  to  the  circumstances  in 
'which  it  has  been  nurtured,  that  it  can  have  few  parallels, 
even  in  the  tenderness  between  a  father  and  a  child.  I  know 
Dr.  Manette — how  can  I  fail  to  know — that,  mingled  with  the 
affection  and  duty  of  a  daughter  who  has  become  a  woman, 
there  is,  in  her  hqart,  towards  you,  all  the  love  and  reliance 
of  infancy  itself.  I  know  that,  as  in  her  childhood  she  had  no 
parent,  so  she  is  now  devoted  to  you  with  all  the  constancy 
and  fervor  of  her  present  years  and  character,  united  to  the 
trustfulness  and  attachment  of  the  early  days  in  which  you 
were  lost  to  her.  I  know  perfectly  well  that  if  yoii  had  been 
restored  to  her  from  the  world  beyond  this  life,  you  could 
hardly  be  invested,  in  her  sight,  with  a  more  sacred  character 
than  that  in  which  you  are  always  with  her.  I  know  that 
when  she  is  clinging  to  you,  the  hands  of  baby,  girl,  and 
woman,  all  in  one,  are  round  your  neck.  I  know  that  in  lov- 
ing you  she  sees  and  loves  her  mother  at  her  own  age,  sees 
and  loves  you  at  my  age,  loves  her  mother  broken-hearted, 
loves  you  through  your  dreadful  trial  and  in  your  blessed 
restoration.  I  have  known  this,  night  and  day,  since  I  have 
known  you  in  your  home." 

Her  father  sat  silent,  with  his  face  bent  down.  His 
breathing  was  a  little  quickened ;  but  he  repressed  all  other 
signs  of  agitation. 

"  Dear  Doctor  Manette,  always  knowing  this,  always  see- 
ing her  and  you  with  this  hallowed  light  about  you,  I  have 
forborne  and  forborne,  as  long  as  it  was  in  the  nature  of  man 
to  do  it.  I  have  felt,  and  do  even  now  feel,  that  to  bring  my 
love — even  mine — between  you,  is  to  touch  your  history  with 
something  not  quite  so  good  as  itself.  But  I  love  her. 
Heaven  is  my  witn^ess  that  I  love  her  !  " 

"  I  believe  it,"  answered  her  father,  mournfully.  "  I  have 
thought  so  before  now.    I  believe  it." 

"  But  do  not  believe,"  said  Darnay,  upon  whose  ear  the 
mournful  voice  struck  with  a  reproachful  sound,  "  that  if  my 
fortune  were  so  cast  as  that,  being  one  day  so  happy  as  ta 


TWO  PROMISES. 


127 


make  her  my  wife,  I  must  at  any  time  put  any  separation  be^ 
tween  her  and  you,  I  could  or  would  breathe  a  word  of  what  I 
now  sayo  Besides  that  I  should  know  it  to  be  hopeless,  I 
should  know  it  to  be  a  baseness.  If  I  had  any  such  pSssi- 
bility,  even  at  a  remote  distance  of  years,  harbored  in  my 
thoughts,  and  hidden  in  my  heart — if  it  ever  had  been  there 
— if  it  ever  could  be  there — I  could  not  now  touch  this  honored 
hand." 

He  laid  his  own  upon  it  as  he  spoke. 

"  No,  dear  Doctor  Manette.  Like  you,  a  voluntary  exile 
from  France  ;  like  you,  driven  from  it  by  its  distractions,  op- 
pressions, and  miseries ;  like  you,  striving  to  live  away  from 
it  by  my  own  exertions,  and  trusting  in  a  happier  future ;  I 
look  only  to  sharing  your  fortunes,  sharing  your  life  and  home, 
and  being  faithful  to  you  to  the  death.  Not  to  divide  with 
Lucie  her  privilege  as  your  child,  companion,  and  friend ; 
but  to  come  in  aid  of  it,  and  bind  her  closer  to  you,  if  such  a 
thing  can  be/' 

His  touch  still  lingered  on  her  father's  hand.  Answering 
the  touch  for  a  moment,  but  not  coldly,  her  father  rested  his 
hands  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair,  and  looked  up  for  the  first 
time  since  the  beginning  of  the  conference.  A  struggle  was 
evidently  in  his  face  ;  a  struggle  with  that  occasional  look 
which  had  a  tendency  in  it  to  dark  doubt  and  dread. 

"  You  speak  so  feelingly  and  so  manfully,  Charles  Darnay, 
that  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  will  open  all  my  heart 
— or  nearly  so.  Have  you  any  reason  to  believe  that  Lucie 
loves  you  ? " 

"  None.    As  yet,  none." 

"  Is  it  the  immediate  object  of  this  confidence,  that  you 
may  at  once  ascertain  that,  with  my  knowledge  ?  " 

"  Not  even  so.  I  might  not  have  the  hopefulness  to  do  it 
for  weeks ;  I  might  (mistaken  or  not  mistaken)  have  that 
hopefulness  to-morrow." 

"  Do  you  seek  any  guidance  from  me  ?  " 

"  I  ask  none,  sir.  But  I  have  thought  it  possible  that  you 
might  have  it  in  your  power,  if  you  should  deem  it  right,  to 
give  me  some." 

"  Do  you  seek  any  promise  from  me  ? 

"  I  do  seek  that." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  well  understand  that,  without  you,  I  could  have  no 
hope.    I  well  understand  that,  even  if  Miss  Manette  held  me 


128 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


at  this  moment  in  her  innocent  heart — do  not  think  I  have  the 
presumption  to  assume  so  much — I  could  retain  no  place  in  it 
against  her  love  for  her  father." 

If  that  be  so,  do  you  see  what,  on  the  other  hand,  is  in- 
volved  in  it  ?  " 

"  I  understand  equally  well,  that  a  word  from  her  father  in 
any  suitor's  favor,  would  outweigh  herself  and  all  the  world. 
For  which  reason,  Doctor  Manette,"  said  Darnay,  modestl}/ 
but  firmly,    I  would  not  ask  that  word,  to  save  my  life." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  Charles  Darnay,  mysteries  arise  out  of 
close  love,  as  well  as  out  of  wide  division  ;  in  the  former  case, 
they  are  subtle  and  delicate,  and  difficult  to  penetrate.  My 
daughter  Lucie  is,  in  this  one  respect,  such  a  mystery  to  me  • 
I  can  make  no  guess  at  the  state  of  her  heart." 

"  May  I  ask,  sir,  if  you  think  she  is  "  As  he  hesi- 
tated, her  father  supplied  the  rest. 

"  Is  sought  by  any  other  suitor  ?  " 

"  It  is  what  I  meant  to  say." 

Her  father  considered  a  little  before  he  answered  : 

"You  have  seen  Mr.  Carton  here,  yourself.    Mr.  Stryver 

is  here  too,  occasionally.    If  it  be  at  all,  it  can  only  be  by 

one  of  these." 

"  Or  both,"  said  Darnay. 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  both ;  I  should  not  think  either, 
likely.    You  want  a  promise  from  me.    Tell  me  what  it  is." 

"  It  is,  that  if  Miss  Manette  should  bring  to  you  at  any  time, 
on  her  own  part,  such  a  confidence  as  I  have  ventured  to  lay 
before  you,  you  will  bear  testimony  to  what  I  have  said,  and 
to  your  belief  in  it.  I  hope  you  may  be  able  to  think  so  well 
of  me,  as  to  urge  no  influence  against  me.  I  say  nothing 
more  of  my  stake  in  this  ;  this  is  what  I  ask.  The  condition 
on  which  I  ask  it,  and  which  you  have  an  undoubted  right 
to  require,  I  will  observe  immediately." 

"  I  give  the  promise,"  said  the  Doctor,  "without  any  con- 
dition. I  believe  your  object  to  be,  purely  and  truthfully,  as 
you  have  stated  it.  I  believe  your  intention  is  to  perpetuate, 
and  not  to  weaken,  the  ties  between  me  and  my  other  and  far 
dearer  self.  If  she  should  ever  tell  me  that  you  are  essential 
to  her  perfect  happiness,  I  will  give  her  to  you.  If  there  were 
■ — Charles  Darnay,  if  there  were  " 

The  young  man  had  taken  his  hand  gratefully ;  theit 
hands  were  joined  as  the  Doctor  spoke : 

" — any  fancies,  any  reasons,  any  apprehensions,  anything 


TWO  PROMISES. 


129 


whatsoever,  new  or  old  against  the  man  she  really  loved — the 
direct  responsibility  thereof  not  lying  on  hi^  head — they 
should  all  be  obliterated  for  her  sake.  She  is  everything  to 
me  ;  more  to  me  than  suffering,  more  to  me  than  wrong,  more 
to  me  Well !    This  is  idle  talk.'' 

So  strange  was  the  way  in  which  he  faded  into  silencep  and 
so  strange  his  fixed  look  when  he  had  ceased  to  speak,  that 
Darnay  felt  his  own  hand  turn  cold  in  the  hand  that  slowly 
released  and  dropped  it. 

"  You  said  something  to  me,''  said  Doctor  Manette,  break- 
ing  into  a  smile.      What  was  it  you  said  to  me  1  " 

He  was  at  a  loss  how  to  answer,  until  he  remembered 
having  spoken  of  a  condition.  Relieved  as  his  mind  reverted 
to  that,  he  answered  : 

"  Your  confidence  in  me  ought  to  be  returned  with  full 
confidence  on  my  part.  My  present  name,  though  but  slightly 
changed  from  my  mother's,  is  not,  as  you  will  remember, 
my  own.  I  wish  to  tell  you  what  that  is,  and  why  I  am  in 
England." 

"  Stop  ! "  said  the  Doctor  of  Beauvais. 

"  I  wish  it,  that  I  may  the  better  deserve  your  confidence, 
and  have  no  secret  from  you." 

"  Stop  ! " 

For  an  instant,  the  Doctor  even  had  his  two  hands  at  his 
ears ;  for  another  instant,  even  had  his  two  hands  laid  on 
Darnay's  lips. 

"  Tell  me  when  I  ask  you,  not  now.  If  your  suit  should 
prosper,  if  Lucie  should  love  you,  you  shall  tell  me  on  your 
marriage  morning.    Do  you  promise  " 

"  Willingly." 

"  Give  me  your  hand.  She  will  be  home  directly,  and  it 
is  better  she  should  not  see  us  together  to-night.  Go  !  God 
bless  you  ! " 

It  was  dark  when  Charles  Darnay  left  him,  and  it  was  an 
hour  later  and  darker  when  Lucie  came  home  ;  she  hurried 
into  the  room  alone — for  Miss  Pross  had  gone  straight  up 
stairs — and  was  surprised  to  find  his  reading-chair  empty. 
"  My  father !  "  she  called  to  him.  "  Father  dear  1  " 
Nothing  was  said  in  answer,  but  she  heard  a  low  hammer- 
ing sound  in  his  bedroom.  Passing  lightly  across  the  inter 
mediate  room,  she  looked  in  at  his  door  and  came  running 
back  frightened,  crying  to  herself,  with  her  blood  all  chilled, 
"  What  shall  I  do !    What  shall  I  do 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


Her  uncertainty  lasted  but  a  moment ;  she  hurried  back, 
and  tapped  at  his  door,  and  softly  called  to  him.  The  noise 
ceased  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  and  he  presently  came  out 
to  her,  and  they  walked  up  and  down  together  for  a  long  time. 

She  came  down  from  her  bed,  to  look  at  him  in  his  sleep 
that  night.  He  slept  heavily,  and  his  tray  of  shoe-making 
tools,  and  his  old  unfinished  work,  were  all  as  usual. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  COMPANION  PICTURE. 

"  Sydney,"  said  Mr.  Stryver,  on  that  self- same  night,  or 
morning,  to  his  jackal ;  "mix  another  bowl  of  punch ;  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you." 

Sydney  had  been  working  double  tides  that  night,  and  the 
night  before,  and  the  night  before  that,  and  a  good  many 
nights  in  succession,  making  a  grand  clearance  among  Mr. 
Stryver's  papers  before  the  setting  in  of  the  long  vacation. 
The  clearance  was  effected  at  last ;  the  Stryver  arrears  w^ere 
handsomely  fetched  up  ;  everything  was  got  rid  of  until  Nov- 
ember should  come  with  its  fogs  atmospheric  and  fogs  legal, 
and  bring  grist  to  the  mill  again. 

Sydney  was  none  the  livelier  and  none  the  soberer  for  so 
much  application.  It  had  taken  a  deal  of  extra  wet-towelling 
to  pull  him  through  the  night  \  a  correspondingly  extra  quan- 
tity of  wine  had  preceded  the  towelling  ;  and  he  was  in  a  very 
damaged  condition,  as  he  now  pulled  his  turban  off  and 
threw  it  into  the  basin  in  which  he  had  steeped  it  at  intervals 
for  the  last  six  hours. 

"  Are  you  mixing  that  other  bowl  of  punch  ?  "  said  Stryver 
the  portly,  with  his  hands  in  his  waistband,  glancing  round 
from  the  sofa  where  he  lay  on  his  back. 

"  I  am." 

"  Now,  look  here  I  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something  that 
will  rather  surprise  you,  and  that  perhaps  will  make  you  think 
me  not  quite  as  shrewd  as  you  usually  do  think  me.  I  intend 
to  marry." 


A  COMPANION  PICTURE. 


lot 


"  Yes.    And  not  for  money.    What  do  you  say  now  ? 
"  I  don't  feel  disposed  to  say  much.    Who  is  she  ? 
"Guess.'' 

"Do  I  know  her?" 
"  Guess." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  guess,  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
with  my  brains  frying  and  sputtering  in  my  head.  If  you 
want  me  to  guess,  you  must  ask  me  to  dinner." 

"Well  then,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Stryver,  coming  slowly 
into  a  sitting  posture.  "  Sydney,  I  rather  despair  of  making 
myself  intelligible  to  you,  because  you  are  such  an  insensible 
dog." 

"  And  you,"  returned  Sydney,  busy  concocting  the  punch, 
"  are  such  a  sensitive  and  poetical  spirit." 
*  "  Come  !  "  rejoined  Stryver,  laughing  boastfully,  "though 
I  don't  prefer  any  claim  to  being  the  soul  of  Romance  (for  I 
hope  I  know  better),  still  I  am  a  tenderer  sort  of  a  fellow 
than  you.^^ 

"  You  are  a  luckier,  if  you  mean  that." 

"  I  don't  mean  that.    I  mean  I  am  a  man  of  more — — 


"  Say  gallantry,  while  you  are  about  it,"  suggested  Carton. 

"  Well !  I'll  say  gallantry.  My  meaning  is  that  I  am  a 
man,"  said  Stryver,  inflating  himself  at  his  friend  as  he  made 
the  punch,  "  who  cares  more  to  be  agreeable,  who  takes  more 
pains  to  be  agreeable,  who  knows  better  how  to  be  agreeable, 
in  a  woman's  society,  than  you  do." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Sydney  Carton. 

"  No ;  but  before  I  go  on,"  said  Stryver,  shaking  his  head 
in  his  bullying  way,  "  I'll  have  this  out  with  you.  You've 
been  at  Dr.  Manette's  house  as  much  as  I  have,  or  more  than 
I  have.  Why,  I  have  been  ashamed  of  your  moroseness 
there  !  Your  manners  have  been  of  that  silent  and  sullen  and 
hang-dog  kind,  that,  upon  my  life  and  soul,  I  have  been 
ashamed  of  you,  Sydney  !  " 

"  It  should  be  very  beneficial  to  a  man  in  your  practice  at 
the  bar,  to  be  ashamed  of  anything,"  returned  Sydney;  "you 
ought  to  be  much  obliged  to  me." 

"  You  shall  not  get  off  in  that  way,"  rejoined  Stryver, 
shouldering  the  rejoinder  at  him ;  "  no,  Sydney,  it's  my  duty 
to  tell  you — and  I  tell  you  to  your  face  to  do  you  good — that 
you  are  a  de-vilish  ill-conditioned  fellow  in  that  sort  of  society. 
You  are  a  disagreeable  fellow." 


more- 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Sydney  drank  a  bumper  of  the  punch  he  had  made,  and 
laughed. 

"  Look  at  me  !  said  Stryver,  squaring  himself ;  I  have 
less  need  to  make  myself  agreeable  than  you  have,  being 
more  independent  in  circumstances.    Why  do  I  do  it  ?  " 

"  I  never  saw  you  do  it  yet/'  muttered  Carton. 
I  do  it  because  it's  politic  ;  I  do  it  on  principle.  And 
look  at  me !    I  get  on." 

You  don't  get  on  with  your  account  of  your  matrimonial 
intentions,''  answered  Carton,  with  a  careless  air  ;  "I  wish 
you  would  keep  to  that.  As  to  me — will  you  never  under- 
stand that  I  am  incorrigible  ?  " 

He  asked  the  question  with  some  appearance  of  scorn. 

"  You  have  no  business  to  be  incorrigible,"  was  his  friend's 
answer,  delivered  in  no  very  soothing  tone. 

"  I  have  no  business  to  be,  at  all,  that  I  know  of,"  said 
Sydney  Carton.      Who  is  the  lady  t  " 

"  Now,  don't  let  my  announcement  of  the  name  make  you 
uncomfortable,  Sydney,"  said  Mr.  Stryver,  preparing  him  with 
ostentatious  friendliness  for  the  disclosure  he  was  about  to 
make,  "  because  I  know  you  don't  mean  half  you  say ;  and  if 
you  meant  it  all,  it  would  be  of  no  importance.  I  make  this 
little  preface,  because  you  once  mentioned  the  young  lady  to 
me  in  slighting  terms." 

"  I  did  ? " 

"  Certainly ;  and  in  these  chambers." 

Sydney  Carton  looked  at  his  punch  and  looked  at  his  com- 
placent friend  ;  drank  his  punch  and  looked  at  his  compla- 
cent friend. 

"  You  made  mention  of  the  young  lady  as  a  golden-haired 
doll.  The  young  lady  is  Miss  Manette.  If  you  had  been  a 
fellow  of  any  sensitiveness  or  delicacy  of  feeling  in  that  kind 
of  way,  Sydney,  I  might  have  been  a  little  resentful  of  your 
employing  such  a  designation  ;  but  you  are  not.  You  want 
that  sense  altogether^;  therefore  I  am  no  more  annoyed  when 
I  think  of  the  expression,  than  I  should  be  annoyed  by  a 
man's  opinion  of  a  picture  of  mine,  who  had  no  eye  for  pic- 
tures  :  or  of  a  piece  of  music  of  mine,  who  had  no  ear  for 
music." 

Sydney  Carton  drank  the  punch  at  a  great  rate ;  drank  it 
by  bumpers,  looking  at  his  friend. 

"  Now  you  know  all  about  it,  Syd,"  said  Mr.  Stryver.  I 
don't  care  about  fortune :  she  is  a  charming  creature,  and  I 


A  COMPANION  PICTURE. 


^33 


have  made  up  my  mind  to  please  myself :  on  the  whole,  I 
think  I  can  afford  to  please  myself.  She  will  have  in  me  a 
man  already  pretty  well  off,  and  a  rapidly  rising  man,  and  a 
man  of  some  distinction  :  it  is  a  piece  of  good  fortune  for  her, 
but  she  is  worthy  of  good  fortune.    Are  you  astonished?  " 

Carton,  still  drinking  the  punch,  rejoined,  "  Why  should  I 
be  astonished  ? 

"  You  approve  ? " 

Carton,  still  drinking  the  punch,  rejoined,  "  Why  should  I 
not  approve  ? " 

Well !  "  said  his  friend  Stryver,  "  you  take  it  more  easilj 
than  I  fancied  you  would,  and  are  less  mercenary  on  my  be* 
half  than  I  thought  you  would  be ;  though,  to  be  sure,  you 
know  well  enough  by  this  time  that  your  ancient  chum  is  a 
man  of  a  pretty  strong  will.  Yes,  Sydney,  I  have  had  enough 
of  this  style  of  life,  with  no  other  as  a  change  from  it ;  I  feel 
that  it  is  a  pleasant  thing  for  a  man  to  have  a  home  when  he 
feels  inclined  to  go  to  it  (when  he  doesn't,  he  can  stay  away), 
and  I  feel  that  Miss  Manette  will  tell  well  in  any  station,  and 
will  always  do  me  credit.  So  I  have  made  up  my  mind. 
And  now,  Sydney,  old  boy,  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  you  about 
your  prospects.  You  are  in  a  bad  way,  you  know  ;  you  really 
are  in  a  bad  way.  You  don't  know  the  value  of  money,  you 
live  hard,  you'll  knock  up  one  of  these  days,  and  be  ill  and 
poor ;  you  really  ought  to  think  about  a  nurse.'' 

The  prosperous  patronage  with  which  he  said  it,  made  him 
look  twice  as  big  as  he  was,  and  four  times  as  offensive. 

"Now,  let  me  recommend  you,"  pursued  Stryver,  "to  look 
it  in  the  face.  I  have  looked  it  in  the  face,  in  my  different 
way  ;  look  it  in  the  face,  you,  in  your  different  way.  Marry. 
Provide  somebody  to  take  care  of  you.  Never  mind  your 
having  no  enjoyment  of  women's  society,  nor  understanding 
of  it,  nor  tact  for  it.  Find  out  somebody.  Find  out  some 
respectable  woman  with  a  little  property — somebody  in  the 
landlady  way,  or  lodging-letting  way — and  marry  her,  against 
a  rainy  day.  That's  the  kind  of  thing  ioxyou.  Now  think 
of  it,  Sydney." 

"  rU  think  of  it/'  said  Sydney. 


«34 


d  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

THE  FELLOW  OP  DELICACY. 

Mr.  Stryvfr  having  made  up  his  mind  to  that  magnani- 
mous bestowal  of  good  fortune  on  the  Doctor's  daughter, 
resolved  to  make  her  happiness  known  to  her  before  he  left 
town  for  the  Long  Vacation.  After  some  mental  debating  of 
the  point,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would  be  as  well 
to  get  all  the  preliminaries  done  with,  and  they  could  then 
arrange  at  their  leisure  whether  he  should  give  her  his  hand 
a  week  or  two  before  Michaelmas  Term,  or  in  the  little  Christ- 
mas vacation  between  it  and  Hilary. 

As  to  the  strength  of  his  case,  he  had  not  a  doubt  about 
it,  but  clearly  saw  his  way  to  the  verdict.  Argued  with  the 
jury  on  substantial  worldly  grounds — the  .only  grounds  ever 
worth  taking  into  account — it  was  a  plain  case,  and  had  not  a 
weak  spot  in  it.  He  called  himself  for  the  plaintiff,  there  was 
no  getting  over  his  evidence,  the  counsel  for  the  defendant 
threw  up  his  brief,  and  the  jury  did  not  even  turn  to  consider. 
After  trying  it,  Stryver,  C.  J.,  was  satisfied  that  no  plainer 
case  could  be. 

Accordingly,  Mr.  Stryver  inaugurated  the  Long  Vacation 
with  a  formal  proposal  to  take  Miss  Manette  to  Vauxhall 
Gardens ;  that  failing,  to  Ranelagh  ;  that  unaccountably  fail- 
ing too,  it  behoved  him  to  present  himself  in  Soho,  and  there 
declare  his  noble  mind. 

Towards  Soho,  therefore,  Mr.  Stryver  shouldered  his  way 
from  the  Temple,  while  the  bloom  of  the  Long  Vacation's 
infancy  was  still  upon  it.  Anybody  who  had  seen  him  pro- 
jecting himself  into  Soho  while  he  was  yet  on  Saint  Dunstan's 
side  of  Temple  Bar,  bursting  in  his  full-blown  way  along  the 
pavement,  to  the  jostlement  of  all  weaker  people,  might  have 
seen  how  safe  and  strong  he  was. 

His  way  taking  him  past  Tellson's,  and  he  both  banking 
at  Tellson's  and  knowing  Mr.  Lorry  as  the  intimate  friend  of 
the  Manettes,  it  entered  Mr.  Stryver's  mind  to  enter  the  bank 
and  reveal  to  Mr.  Lorry  the  brightness  of  the  Soho  horizon. 
So,  he  pushed  open  the  door  with  the  weak  rattle  in  its  throat, 
stumbled  down  the  two  steps,  got  past  the  two  ancient  cashiers. 


THE  FELLOW  OF  DELICACY; 


and  shouldered  himself  into  the  musty  back  closet  where  Mr. 
Lorry  sat  at  great  books  ruled  for  figures,  with  perpendicular 
iron  bars  to  his  window  as  if  that  were  ruled  for  figures  too, 
and  everything  under  the  clouds  were  a  sum. 

Halloa  !    said  Mr.  Stryver.    "  How  do  you  do  ?    I  hope 
you  are  well ! 

It  was  Stryver's  grand  peculiarity  that  he  always  seemed 
.  too  big  for  any  place,  or  space.  He  was  so  much  too  big 
for  Tellson's,  that  old  clerks  in  distant  corners  looked  up  with 
looks  of  remonstrance,  as  though  he  squeezed  them  against 
the  wall.  The  House  itself,  magnificently  reading  the  paper 
quite  in  the  far-off  perspective,  lowered  displeased,  as  if  the 
Stryver  head  had  been  butted  into  its  responsible  waistcoat. 

The  discreet  Mr.  Lorry  said,  in  a  sample  tone  of  the  voice 
he  would  recommend  under  the  circumstances,  "  How  do  you 
do,  Mr.  Stryver  ?  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  "  and  shook  hands. 
There  was  a  peculiarity  in  his  manner  of  shaking  hands, 
always  to  be  seen  in  any  clerk  at  Tellson's  who  shook  hands 
with  a  customer  when  the  House  pervaded  the  air.  He  shook 
in  a  self-abnegating  way,  as  one  who  shook  for  Tellson  and 
Co. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Mr.  Stryver  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Lorry,  in  his  business  character. 

"  Why,  no,  thank  you  ;  this  is  a  private  visit  to  yourself, 
Mr.  Lorry ;  I  have  come  for  a  private  word.'' 

"  Oh  indeed  !  "  said  Mr.  Lorry,  bending  down  his  ear, 
while  his  eye  strayed  to  the  House  afar  off. 

"I  am  going,"  said  Mr.  Stryver,  leaning  his  arms  confi- 
dentially on  the  desk  :  whereupon,  although  it  was  a  large 
double  one,  there  appeared  to  be  not  half  desk  enough  for 
him  :  "  I  am  going  to  make  an  offer  of  myself  in  marriage  to 
your  agreeable  little  friend.  Miss  Manette,  Mr.  Lorry." 

"  Oh  dear  me  !  "  cried  Mr.  Lorry,  rubbing  his  chin,  and 
looking  at  his  visitor  dubiously. 

"  Oh  dear  me,  sir  ? "  repeated  Stryver,  drawing  back. 
"  Oh  dear  you,  sir  ?    What  may  your  meaning  be,  Mr.  Lorry  1  " 

"  My  meaning,"  answered  the  man  of  business,  "  is,  of 
course,  friendly  and  appreciative,  and  that  it  does  you  the 
greatest  credit,  and — in  short,  my  meaning  is  everything  you 

could  desire.    But — really,  you  know,  Mr.  Stryver  "  Mr. 

Lorry  paused,  and  shook  his  head  at  him  in  the  oddest  man- 
ner, as  if  he  were  compelled  against  his  will  to  add,  internally, 
"  you  know  there  really  is  so  much  too  much  of  you  I  " 


136 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


"Well ! said  Stryver,  slapping  the  desk  with  his  conten 
tious  hand,  opening  his  eyes  wider,  and  taking  a  long  breatli, 
*^if  I  understand  you,  Mr.  Lorry,  I'll  be  hanged !  " 

Mr.  Lorry  adjusted  his  little  wig  at  both  ears  as  a  means 
towards  that  end,  and  bit  the  feather  of  a  pen. 

"  D — n  it  all,  sir  ! ' '  said  Stryver,  staring  at  him,  "  am  I 
not  eligible  ? " 

"  Oh  dear  yes  !  Yes.  Oh  yes,  you're  eligible  !  "  said  Mr. 
Lorry.    "  If  you  say  eligible,  you  are  eligible." 

"  Am  I  not  prosperous  ?  "  asked  Stryver. 
Oh  !  if  you  come  to  prosperous,  you  are  prosperous,"  said 
Mr,  Lorry. 

"  And  advancing  ?  " 

"  If  you  come  to  advancing,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Lorry, 
delighted  to  be  able  to  make  another  admission,  "  nobody  can 
doubt  that." 

"  Then  what  on  earth  is  your  meaning,  Mr.  Lorry  " 
demanded  Stryver,  perceptibly  crestfallen. 

"  Well !  I  Were  you  going  there  now  ?  "  asked  Mr. 

Lorry. 

"  Straight!  "  said  Stryver,  with  a  plump  of  his  fist  on  the 
desk. 

"  Then  I  think  I  wouldn't,  if  I  was  you." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Stryver.  "  Now,  I'll  put  you  in  a  corner,'' 
forensically  shaking  a  forefinger  at  him.  "  You  are  a  man  of 
business  and  bound  to  have  a  reason.  State  your  reason. 
Why  wouldn't  you  go  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  "  I  wouldn't  go  on  such  an 
object  without  having  some  cause  to  believe  that  I  should 
succeed." 

— n  ME  !  "  cried  Stryver,  "but  this  beats  everything." 

Mr.  Lorry  glanced  at  the  distant  House,  and  glanced  at 
the  angry  Stryver. 

"  Here's  a  man  of  business — a  man  oi  years — a  man  of 
experience — in  a  Bank,"  said  Stryver;  "  and  having  summed 
up  three  leading  reasons  for  complete  success,  he  says  there's 
no  reason  at  all !  Says  it  with  his  head  on  !  "  Mr.  Stryver 
remarked  upon  the  peculiarity  as  if  it  would  have  been  infi- 
nitely less  remarkable  if  he  had  said  it  with  his  head  off. 

"When  I  speak  of  success,  I  speak  of  success  with  the 
young  lady  ;  and  when  I  speak  of  causes  and  reasons  to  make 
success  probable,  I  speak  of  causes  and  reasons  that  will  tell 
as  such  with  the  young  lady.    The  young  lady,  my  good  sir/' 


t 


THE  FELLOW  OF  DELICACY, 


said  Mr.  Lorry,  mildly  tapping  the  Stryver  arm,  "  the  young 
lady.    The  young  lady  goes  before  all." 

"Then  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Lorry,''  said  Stryver, 
squaring  his  elbows,  that  it  is  your  deliberate  opinion  that 
the  young  lady  at  present  in  question  is  a  mincing  Fool  ? " 

"  Not  exactly  so.  I  mean  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Stryver,"  said 
Mr.  Lorry,  reddening,  that  I  will  hear  no  disrespectful  word 
of  that  young  lady  from  any  lips ;  and  that  if  I  knew  any 
man — which  I  hope  I  do  not — whose  taste  was  so  coarse,  and 
whose  temper  was  so  overbearing,  that  he  could  not  restrain 
himself  from  speaking  disrespectfully  of  that  young  lady  at 
this  desk,  not  even  Tellson's  should  prevent  my  giving  him  a 
piece  of  my  mind." 

The  necessity  of  being  angry  in  a  suppressed  tone  had 
put  Mr.  Stryver's  blood-vessels  into  a  dangerous  state  when 
it  was  his  turn  to  be  angry ;  Mr.  Lorry's  veins,  methodical  as 
their  courses  could  usually  be,  were  in  no  better  state  now  it 
was  his  turn. 

"  That  is  what  I  mean  to  tell  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Lorry. 
Pray  let  there  be  no  mistake  about  it." 
Mr.  Stryver  sucked  the  end  of  a  ruler  for  a  little  while, 
and  then  stood  hitting  a  tune  out  of  his  teeth  with  it,  which 
probably  gave  him  the  toothache.    He  broke  the  awkward 
silence  by  saying : 

This  is  something  new  to  me,  Mr.  Lorry.  You  deliber- 
ately advise  me  not  to  go  up  to  Soho  and  offer  myself — my- 
self,  Stryver  of  the  King's  Bench  bar? " 

"  Do  you  ask  me  for  my  advice,  Mr.  Stryver  ?  " 
Yes,  I  do." 

Very  good.  Then  I  give  it,  and  you  have  repeated  it 
correctly." 

"  And  all  I  can  say  of  it  is,"  laughed  Stryver  with  a  vexed 
laugh,  "  that  this — ha,  ha  ! — beats  everything  past,  present, 
and  to  come.^' 

"  Now  understand  me,"  pursued  Mr.  Lorry.  "  As  a  man 
of  business,  I  am  not  justified  in  saying  anything  about  this 
matter,  for,  as  a  man  of  business,  I  know  nothing  of  it. 
But,  as  an  old  fellow,  who  has  carried  Miss  Manette  in  his 
arms,  who  is  the  trusted  frienH  of  Miss  Manette  and  of  her 
father  too,  and  who  has  a  great  affection  for  them  both,  1 
have  spoken.  The  confidence  is  not  of  my  seeking,  recollect. 
Now,  you  think  I  may  not  be  right.?" 

'^Not  1 1  "  said  Stryver,  whistling.      I  can't  undertake  to 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


find  tliird  parties  in  common  sense  ;  I  can  only  find  it  for  my- 
self. I  suppose  sense  in  certain  quarters  ;  you  suppose  min< 
cing  bread-and-butter  nonsense.  It's  new  to  me,  but  you  are 
right,  I  dare  say." 

"  What  I  suppose,  Mr.  Stryver,  I  claim  to  characterize  foi 
myself.  And  understand  me,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  quickly 
flushing  again,  "  I  will  not — not  even  at  Tellson's — have  it 
characterized  for  me  by  any  gentleman  breathing." 

"  There  !    I  beg  your  pardon  !  "  said  Stryver. 

"  Granted.  Thank  you.  Well,  Mr.  Stryver,  I  was  about 
to  say  :  it  might  be  painful  to  you  to  find  yourself  mistaken, 
it  might  be  painful  to  Dr.  Manette  to  have  the  task  of  being 
explicit  with  you,  it  might  be  very  painful  to  Miss  Manette  to 
have  the  task  of  being  explicit  with  you.  You  know  the 
terms  upon  which  I  have  the  honor  and  happiness  to  stand 
with  the  family.  If  you  please,  committing  you  in  no  way, 
representing  you  in  no  way,  I  will  undertake  to  correct  my 
advice  by  the  exercise  of  a  little  new  observation  and  judg- 
ment expressly  brought  to  bear  upon  it.  If  you  should  then 
be  dissatisfied  with  it,  you  can  but  test  its  soundness  for  your- 
self ;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  you  should  be  satisfied  with  it, 
and  it  should  be  what  it  now  is,  it  may  spare  all  sides  what 
is  best  spared.    What  do  you  say  ? 

"  How  long  would  you  keep  me  in  town  ?  " 
Oh  !    It  is  only  a  question  of  a  few  hours.    I  could  go 
to  Soho  in  the  evening,  and  come  to  your  chambers  after- 
wards." 

"  Then  I  say  yes,"  said  Stryver  :  "  I  won't  go  up  there 
now,  I  am  not  so  hot  upon  it  as  that  comes  to  ;  I  say  yes,  and 
I  shall  expect  you  to  look  in  to-night.  Good-morning." 

Then  Mr.  Stryver  turned  and  burst  out  of  the  Bank, 
causing  such  a  concussion  of  air  on  his  passage  through,  that 
to  stand  up  against  it  bowing  behind  the  two  counters,  re- 
quired the  utmost  remaining  strength  of  the  two  ancient 
clerks.  Those  venerable  and  feeble  persons  were  always 
seen  by  the  public  in  the  act  of  bowing,  and  were  popularly 
believed,  when  they  had  bowed  a  customer  out,  still  to  keep 
on  bowing  in  the  empty  office^  until  they  bowed  another  cus- 
tomer  in. 

The  barrister  was  keen  enough  to  divine  that  the  banker 
would  not  have  gone  so  far  in  his  expression  of  opinion  on 
any  less  solid  ground  than  moral  certainty.  Unprepared  as 
he  was  for  the  large  pill  he  had  to  swallow,  he  got  it  down. 


THE  FELLOW  OF  DELICACY, 


139 


"  And  now,"  said  Mr.  Stryver,  shaking  his  forensic  forefinger 
at  the  Temple  in  general,  when  it  was  down,  my  way  out  of 
this,  is,  to  put  you  all  in  the  wrong." 

It  was  a  bit  of  the  art  of  an  Old  Bailey  tactician,  in  which 
he  found  great  relief,  *'  You  shall  not  put  me  in  the  wrong, 
young  lady,"  said  Mr,  Stryver ;  "  I'll  do  that  for  you." 

Accordingly,  when  Mr,  Lorry  called  that  night  as  late  as 
ten  o'clock,  Mr,  Stryver,  among  a  quantity  of  books  and 
papers  littered  out  for  the  purpose,  seemed  to  have  nothing 
less  on  his  mind  than  the  subject  of  the  morning.  He  even 
showed  surprise  when  he  saw  Mr.  Lorry,  and  was  altogether 
in  an  absent  and  preoccupied  state. 

"  Well  I  "  said  that  good-natured  emissary,  after  a  full 
half-hour  of  bootless  attempts  to  bring  him  round  to  the 
question,    "  I  have  been  to  Soho." 

"  To  Soho  "  repeated  Mr.  Stryver,  coldly.  "  Oh,  to  be 
sure  !    What  am  I  thinking  of  !  " 

"  And  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  "  that  I  was 
right  in  the  conversation  we  had.  My  opinion  is  confirmed, 
and  I  reiterate  my  advice." 

"  I  assure  you,"  returned  Mr.  Stryver,  in  the  friendliest 
way,  "  that  I  am  sorry  for  it  on  your  account,  and  sorry  for  it 
on  the  poor  father's  account.  I  know  this  must  always  be  a 
sore  subject  with  the  family  ;  let  us  say  no  more  about  it." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Mr.  Lorry. 
I  dare  say  not,"  rejoined  Stryver,  nodding  his  head  in  a 
smoothing  and  final  way  ;  "  no  matter,  no  matter." 
But  it  does  matter,"  Mr.  Lorry  urged. 

"  No  it  doesn't ;  I  assure  you  it  doesn't.  Having  sup- 
posed that  there  was  sense  where  there  is  no  sense,  and  a 
laudable  ambition  where  there  is  not  a  laudable  ambition,  I 
am  well  out  of  my  mistake,  and  no  harm  is  done.  Young 
women  have  committed  similar  follies  often  before,  and  have 
repented  them  in  poverty  and  obscurity  often  before.  In  an 
unselfish  aspect,  I  am  sorry  that  the  thing  is  dropped,  because 
it  would  have  been  a  bad  thing  for  me  in  a  worldly  point  of 
view ;  in  a  selfish  aspect,  I  am  glad  that  the  thing  has  dropped, 
because  it  would  have  been  a  bad  thing  for  me  in  a  worldly 
point  of  view — it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  I  could  have  gained 
nothing  by  it.  There  is  no  harm  at  all  done.  I  have  not 
proposed  to  the  young  lady,  and,  between  ourselves,  I  am  by 
no  means  certain,  on  reflection,  that  I  ever  should  have  com- 
mitted myself  to  that  extent,    Mr.  Lorry,  you  cannot  control 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


the  mincing  vanities  and  giddiness  of  empty-headed  girls; 
you  must  not  expect  to  do  it,  or  you  will  always  be  disap- 
pointed. Now,  pray  say  no  more  about  it.  I  tell  you,  I  re- 
gret it  on  account  of  others,  but  I  am  satisfied  on  my  own  ac- 
count. And  I  am  really  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  allow- 
ing me  to  sound  you,  and  for  giving  me  your  advice  ;  you 
know  the  young  lady  better  than  I  do  j  you  were  right,  it  never 
would  have  done." 

Mr.  Lorry  was  so  taken  aback,  that  he  looked  quite  stu- 
pidly at  Mr.  Stryver  shouldering  him  towards  the  door,  with 
an  appearance  of  showering  generosity,  forbearance,  and  good- 
will, on  his  erring  head.  Make  the  best  of  it,  my  dear  sir," 
said  Stryver ;  "  say  no  more  about  it ;  thank  you  again  for 
allowing  me  to  sound  you  ;  good-night ! 

Mr.  Lorry  was  out  in  the  night,  before  he  knew  where  he 
was.  Mr.  Stryver  was  lying  back  on  his  sofa,  winking  at  his 
ceiling. 


CHAPTER  Xin. 

THE  FELLOW  OF  NO  DELICACY. 

If  Sydney  Carton  ever  shone  anywhere,  he  certainly  never 
shone  in  the  house  of  Doctor  Manette.  He  had  been  there 
often,  during  a  whole  year,  and  had  always  been  the  same 
moody  and  morose  lounger  there.  When  he  cared  to  talk,  he 
talked  well ;  but,  the  cloud  of  caring  for  nothing,  which  over- 
shadowed him  with  such  a  fatal  darkness,  was  very  rarely 
pierced  by  the  light  within  him. 

And  yet  he  did  care  something  for  the  streets  that  envi- 
roned that  house,  and  for  the  senseless  stones  that  made  their 
pavements.  Many  a  night  he  vaguely  and  unhappily  wan- 
dered there,  when  wine  had  brought  no  transitory  gladness  to 
him;  many  a  dreary  daybreak  revealed  his  solitary  figure 
lingering  there,  and  still  lingering  there  when  the  first  beams 
of  the  sun  brought  into  strong  relief,  removed  beauties  of  ar- 
chitecture in  spires  of  churches  and  lofty  buildings,  as  perhaps 
the  quiet  time  brought  some  sense  of  better  things,  else  for- 
gotten and  unattainable,  into  his  mind.  Of  late,  the  negJ^cted 
bed  in  the  Temple  Court  had  known  him  more  scan  til)  than 


irrr  sj^lloiv  of  no  delicacy. 


ever  ;  and  often  when  he  had  thrown  himself  upon  it  no  longer 
than  a  few  minutes,  he  had  got  up  again,  and  haunted  that 
nGi;;^'^-borhood. 

On  a  day  in  August,  when  Mr.  Stryver  (after  notifying  to 
his  jackal  that  "he  had  thought  better  of  that  marrying 
matter  ")  had  carried  his  delicacy  into  Devonshire,  and  when 
the  sight  and  scent  of  flowsers  in  the  City  streets  had  some 
wai.:s  of  goodness  in  them  for  the  worst,  of  health  for  the 
sickliest,  and  of  youth  for  the  oldest,  Sydney's  feet  still  trod 
those  stones.'  From  being  irresolute  and  purposeless,  his  feet 
became  animated  by  an  intention,  and,  in  the  working  out  of 
that  intention,  they  took  him  to  the  Doctor's  door. 

He  was  shown  up  stairs,  and  found  Lucie  at  her  work, 
alone.  She  had  never  been  quite  at  her  ease  with  him,  and 
received  him  with  some  little  embarrassment  as  he  seated 
himself  near  her  table.  But,  looking  up  at  his  face  in  the  in- 
terchange of  the  first  few  common-places,  she  observed  a 
change  in  it. 

"  I  fear  you  are  not  well,  Mr.  Carton  !  " 
No.    But  the  life  I  lead,  Miss  Manette,  is  not  conducive 
to  health.    What  is  to  be  expected  of,  or  by,  such  profli- 
gates ? " 

"Is  it  not — forgive  me  ;  I  have  begun  the  question  qu  my 
lips — a  pity  to  live  no  better  life  ? 
"  God  knows  it  is  a  shame  ! 
"  Then  why  not  change  it  ? 

Looking  gently  at  him  again,  she  was  surprised  and  sad- 
dened to  see  that  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  There  were 
tears  in  his  voice  too,  as  he  answered  : 

"It  is  too  late  for  that,  I  shall  never  be  better  than  I  am. 
I  shall  sink  lower,  and  be  worse.'* 

He  leaned  an  elbow  on  her  table,  and  covered  his  eyes 
with  his  hand.  The  table  trembled  in  the  silence  that  fol- 
lowed. 

She  had  never  seen  him  softened,  and  was  much  distressed^ 
He  knew  her  to  be  so,  without  looking  at  her,  and  said  : 

"  Pray  forgive  me,  Miss  Manette.  I  break  down  before  the 
knowledge  of  what  I  want  to  say  to  you.    Will  you  hear  me  t  " 

"  If  it  will  do  you  any  good,  Mr.  Carton,  if  it  would  make 
you  happier,  it  would  make  me  very  glad  !  " 

"  God  bless  you  for  your  sweet  compassion  !  " 

He  unshaded  his  face  after  a  little  while,  and  spoke 
steadily. 


1^2  A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  to  hear  me.  Don't  shrink  from  anything 
1  say.  I  am  like  one  who  died  young.  All  my  life  might 
have  been.'' 

"  No,  Mr.  Carton.  I  am  sure  that  the  best  part  of  u 
might  still  be  ;  I  am  sure  that  you  might  be  much,  much  wor- 
thier of  yourself." 

Say  of  you,  Miss  Manette,»and  although  I  know  bettei 
— although  in  the  mystery  of  fny  own  wretched  heart  I  know 
better — I  shall  never  forget  it !  " 

She  was  pale  and  trembling.  He  came  to  her  relief  with 
a  fixed  despair  of  himself  which  made  the  interview  unlike 
any  other  that  could  have  been  holden. 

If  it  had  been  possible,  Miss  Manette,  that  you  could 
have  returned  the  love  of  the  man  you  see  before  you — self- 
flung  away,  wasted,  drunken,  poor  creature  of  misuse  as  you 
know  him  to  be — he  would  have  been  conscious  this  day  and 
hour,  in  spite  of  his  happiness,  that  he  would  bring  you  to 
misery,  bring  you  to  sorrow  and  repentance,  blight  you,  dis- 
grace you,  pull  you  down  with  him.  I  know  very  well  that 
you  can  have  no  tenderness  for  me  ;  I  ask  for  none  ;  I  am 
even  thankful  that  it  cannot  be." 

"  Without  it,  can  I  not  save  you,  Mr.  Carton  ?  Can  I  not 
recall  you — forgive  me  again  ! — to  a  better  course  ?  Can  I  in 
no  way  repay  your  confidence  ?  I  know  this  is  a  confidence," 
she  modestly  said,  after  a  little  hesitation,  and  in  earnest 
tears,  "  I  know  you  would  say  this  to  no  one  else.  Can  I 
turn  it  to  no  good  account  for  yourself,  Mr.  Carton  ? " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  To  none.  No,  Miss  Manette,  to  none.  If  you  will  hear 
me  through  a  very  little  more,  all  you  can  ever  do  for  me  is 
done.  I  wish  you  to  know  that  you  have  been  the  last  dream 
of  my  soul.  In  my  degradation  I  have  not  been  so  degraded 
but  that  the  sight  of  you  with  your  father,  and  of  this  home 
made  such  a  home  by  you,  has  stirred  old  shadows  that  I 
thought  had  died  out  of  me.  Since  I  knew  you,  I  have  been 
troubled  by  a  remorse  that  I  thought  would  never  reproach 
me  again,  and  have  heard  whispers  from  old  voices  impelling 
me  upward,  that  I  thought  were  silent  for  ever.  I  have  had 
unformed  ideas  of  striving  afresh,  beginning  anew,  shaking 
off  sloth  and  sensuality,  and  fighting  out  the  abandoned  fight. 
A  dream,  all  a  dream,  that  ends  in  nothing,  and  leaves  the 
sleeper  where  he  lay  down,  but  I  wish  you  to  know  that  you 
inspired  it." 


THE  FELLOW  OF  NO  FfELICACY. 


"Will  nothing  of  it  remain  ?  O  Mr.  Carton,  think  again  1 
Try  again ! " 

"  No,  Miss  Manette  ;  all  through  it,  I  have  known  myself 
to  be  quite  undeserving.  And  yet  I  have  had  the  weakness,  and 
have  still  the  weakness,  to  wish  you  to  know  with  what  a  sud- 
den mastery  you  kindled  me,  heap  of  ashes  that  I  am,  into  fire 
= — a  fire,  however,  inseparable  in  its  nature  from  myself,  quick- 
ening nothing,  lighting  nothing,  doing  no  service,  idly  burning 
away/' 

"  Since  it  is  my  misfortune,  Mr.  Carton,  to  have  made  you 
more  unhappy  than  you  were  before  you  knew  me— — " 

"  Don't  say  that.  Miss  Manette,  for  you  would  have  re- 
claimed me,  if  anything  could.  You  will  not  be  the  cause  of 
my  becoming  worse." 

"  Since  the  state  of  your  mind  that  you  describe,  is,  at  all 
events,  attributable  to  some  influence  of  mine — this  is  what  I 
mean,  if  I  can  make  it  plain — can  I  use  no  influence  to  serve 
you  ?    Have  I  no  power  for  good,  with  you,  at  all  1  " 

"  The  utmost  good  that  I  am  capable  of  now,  Miss  Ma- 
nette, I  have  come  here  to  realize.  Let  me  carry  through  the 
rest  of  my  misdirected  life,  the  remembrance  that  I  opened 
my  heart  to  you,  last  of  all  the  world  ;  and  that  there  was 
something  left  in  me  at  this  time  which  you  could  deplore  and 
pity." 

"Which  I  entreated  you  to  believe,  again  and  again, 
most  fervently,  with  all  my  heart,  was  capable  of  better  things, 
Mr.  Carton  !  " 

"  Entreat  me  to  believe  it  no  more.  Miss  Manette.  I  have 
proved  myself,  and  I  know  better.  I  distress  you  ;  I  draw  fast 
to  an  end.  Will  you  let  me  believe,  when  I  recall  this  day, 
that  the  last  confidence  of  my  life  was  reposed  in  your  pure 
and  innocent  breast,  and  that  it  lies  there  alone,  and  will  be " 
shared  by  no  one  ?  " 

"  If  that  will  be  a  consolation  to  you,  yes." 

"  Not  even  by  the  dearest  one  ever  to  be  known  to  you  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Carton,"  she  answered,  after  an  agitated  pause, 
"the  secret  is  yours,  not  mine ;  and  I  promise  to  respect  it." 

"  Thank  you.    And  again,  God  bless  you." 

He  put  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  moved  towards  the  door, 

"  Be  under  no  apprehension,  Miss  Manette,  of  my  ever 
resuming  this  conversation  by  so  much  as  a  passing  word.  I 
will  never  refer  to  it  again.    If  I  were  dead,  that  could  not 
be  surer  than  it  is  henceforth.    In  the  hour  of  my  death,  I 
7 


144 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


shall  hold  sacred  the  one  good  remembrance — -and  shall 
thank  and  bless  you  for  it — that  my  last  avowal  of  myself  was 
made  to  you,  and  that  my  name,  and  faults,  and  miseries 
were  gently  carried  in  your  heart.  May  it  otherwise  be  light 
and  happy  ! 

He  was  so  unlike  what  he  had  ever  show^n  himself  to  be, 
and  it  was  so  sad  to  think  how  much  he  had  thrown  away, 
and  how  much  he  every  day  kept  down  and  perverted,  Lucie 
Manette  wept  mournfully  for  him  as  he  stood  looking  back  at 
her. 

"  Be  ??)mforted  ! he  said,  "  I  am  not  worth  such  feeling, 
Miss  Manette.  An  hour  or  two  hence,  and  the  low  compan- 
ions and  low  habits  that  I  scorn  but  yield  to,  will  render  me 
less  worth  such  tears  as  those,  than  any  wretch  who  creeps 
along  the  streets.  Be  comforted  !  But,  within  myself,  I  shall 
always  be,  towards  you,  what  I  am  now,  though  outwardly  I 
shall  be  what  you  have  heretofore  seen  me.  The  last  sup- 
plication but  one  I  make  to  you,  is,  that  you  will  believe  this 
of  me,'' 

"  I  will,  Mr.  Carton." 

"  My  last  supplication  of  all,  is  this ;  and  with  it,  I  will 
relieve  you  of  a  visitor  with  whom  I  well  know  you  have  noth- 
ing in  unison,  and  between  whom  and  you  there  is  an  impass- 
able space.  It  is  useless  to  say  it,  I  know,  but  it  rises  out 
of  my  soul.  For  you,  and  for  any  dear  to  you,  I  would  do 
anything.  If  my  career  were  of  that  better  kind  that  there 
was  any  opportunity  or  capacity  of  sacrifice  in  it,  I  would  em- 
brace any  sacrifice  for  you  and  for  those  dear  to  you.  Try  to 
hold  me  in  your  mind,  at  some  quiet  times,  as  ardent  and  sin- 
cere in  this  one  thing.  The  time  will  come,  the  time  will  not 
be  long  in  coming,  when  new  ties  will  be  formed  about  you — 
ties  that  will  bind  you  yet  more  tenderly  and  strongly  to  the 
home  you  so  adorn — the  dearest  ties  that  will  ever  grace  and 
gladden  you.  O  Miss  Manette,  when  the  little  picture  of  a 
happy  father's  face  looks  up  in  yours,  when  you  see  your  own 
bright  beauty  springing  up  anew  at  your  feet,  think  now  and 
then  that  there  is  a  man  who  would  give  his  life,  to  keep  a 
life  you  love  beside  you  !  " 

He  said,  "  Farewell !  "  said  a  last  "  God  bless  you ! "  and 
hft  her. 


THE  HONEST  TRADESMAN, 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  HONEST  TRADESMAN. 

To  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Jeremiah  Cruncher,  sitting  on  his  stoo'. 
In  Fleet  Street  with  his  grisly  urchin  beside  him,  a  vast  num- 
ber and  variety  of  objects  in  movement  were  every  day  pre- 
sented. Who  could  sit  upon  anything  in  Fleet  Street  during 
the  busy  hours  of  the  day,  and  not  be  dazed  and  deafened  by 
two  immense  processions,  one  ever  tending  westward  with 
the  sun^  the  other  ever  tending  eastward  from  the  sun,  both 
ever  tending  to  the  plains  beyond  the  range  of  red  and  purple 
where  the  sun  goes  down  ! 

With  his  straw  in  his  mouth,  Mr.  Cruncher  sat  watching 
the  two  streams,  like  the  heathen  rustic  who  has  for  several 
centuries  been  on  duty  watching  one  stream — saving  that 
Jerry  had  no  expectation  of  their  ever  running  dry.  Nor 
would  it  have  been  an  expectation  of  a  hopeful  kind,  since  a 
small  part  of  his  income  was  derived  from  the  pilotage  of 
timid  women  (mostly  of  a  full  habit  and  past  the  middle  term 
of  life)  from  Tellson's  side  of  the  tides  to  the  opposite  shore. 
Brief  as  such  companionship  was  in  every  separate  instance, 
Mr.  Cruncher  never  failed  to  become  so  interested  in  the  lady 
as  to  express  a  strong  desire  to  have  the  honor  of  drinking 
her  very  good  health.  And  it  was  from  the  gifts  bestowed 
upon  him  towards  the  execution  of  this  benevolent  purpose, 
that  he  recruited  his  finances,  as  just  now  observed. 

Time  was,  when  a  poet  sat  upon  a  stool  in  a  public  place, 
and  mused  in  the  sight  of  men.  Mr.  Cruncher,  sitting  on  a 
stool  in  a  public  place,  but  not  being  a  poet,  mused  as  little 
as  possible,  and  looked  about  him. 

It  fell  out  that  he  was  thus  engaged  in  a  season  when 
crowds  were  few,  and  belated  women  few,  and  when  his  af^ 
fairs  in  general  were  so  unprosperous  as  to  awaken  a  strong 
suspicion  in  his  breast  that  Mrs.  Cruncher  must  have  been 
"flopping"  in  some  pointed  manner,  when  an  unusual  con- 
course pouring  down  Fleet  Street  westward,  attracted  his  at- 
tentioi?.     Looking  that  way,  Mr.  Cruncher  made  out  -that 


146 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


some  kind  of  funeral  was  coming  along,  and  that  there  wag 
popular  objection  to  this  funeral,  which  engendered  uproar. 

"  Young  Jerry,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  turning  to  his  off* 
spring,  *'it's  a  buryin'." 

"  Hooroar,  father  ! cried  Young  Jerry. 

The  young  gentleman  uttered  this  exultant  sound  with 
mysterious  significance.  The  elder  gentleman  took  the  cry 
so  ill,  that  he  watched  his  opportunity,  and  smote  the  young 
gentleman  on  the  ear. 

"  What  d'ye  mean  ?  What  are  you  hooroaring  at  ?  What 
do  you  want  to  conwey  to  your  own  father,  you  young  Rip  ? 
This  boy  is  a  getting  too  many  for  me  /^^  said  Mr.  Cruncher, 
surveying  him.  Him  and  his  hooroars !  Don't  let  me 
hear  no  more  of  you,  or  you  shall  feel  some  more  of  me. 
D'ye  hear  ? " 

"  I  warn't  doing  no  harm,"  Young  Jerry  protested,  rubbing 
his  cheek. 

^'  Drop  it  then,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher  ;  "  I  won't  have  none 
of  your  no  harms.  Get  a  top  of  that  there  seat,  and  look  at 
the  crowd." 

His  son  obeyed,  and  the  crowd  approached ;  they  were 
bawling  and  hissing  round  a  dingy  hearse  and  dingy  mourning 
coach,  in  which  mourning  coach  there  was  only  one  mourner, 
dressed  in  the  dingy  trappings  that  were  considered  essential 
to  the  dignity  of  the  position.  The  position  appeared  by  no 
means  to  please  him,  however,  with  an  increasing  rabble  sur- 
rounding the  coach,  deriding  him,  making  grimaces  at  him, 
and  incessantly  groaning  and  calling  out :  "  Yah  !  Spies  ! 
Tst !  Yaha  !  Spies  !  "  with  many  compliments  too  numerous 
and  forcible  to  repeat. 

Funerals  had  at  all  times  a  remarkable  attraction  for  Mr. 
Cruncher;  he  always  pricked  up  his  senses,  and  became  ex- 
cited, when  a  funeral  passed  Tellson's.  Naturally,  therefore, 
a  funeral  with  this  uncommon  attendance  excited  him  greatly, 
and  he  asked  of  the  first  man  who  ran  against  him : 

"  What  is  it,  brother  ?    What's  it  about  ?  " 

"  /  don't  know,"  said  the  man.  "  Spies  !  Yaha  !  Tst  I 
Spies  ! " 

He  asked  another  man.    "  Who  is  it  ?  " 

"/don't  know,"  returned  the  man,  clapping  his  hand  to 
his  mouth  nevertheless,  and  vociferating  in  a  surprising  heat 
and  with  the  greatest  ardor,  Spies  !  Yaha !  Tst,  tst  1 
Spi-ies  !  " 


THE  HONEST  TRADESMAN, 


147 


At  length,  a  person  better  informed  on  the  merits  of  the 
case,  tumbled  against  him,  and  from  this  person  he  learned 
that  the  funeral  was  the  funeral  of  one  Roger  Cly. 

"  Was  he  a  spy  ? asked  Mr.  Cruncher. 

"  Old  Bailey  spy,"  returned  his  informant.  "  Yaha  !  Tst ! 
Yah !    Old  Bailey  Spi-i-ies  !  " 

"  Why,  to  be  sure  !  "  exclaimed  Jerry,  recalling  the  Trial 
at  which  he  had  assisted.      I've  seen  him.    Dead,  is  he  ? 

"  Dead  as  mutton,"  returned  the  other,  "  and  can't  be 
too  dead.  Have  'em  out,  there  !  Spies  !  Pull  'em  out,  there  ! 
Spies !  " 

The  idea  was  so  acceptable  in  the  prevalent  absence  of  any 
idea,  that  the  crowd  caught  it  up  with  eagerness,  and  loudly 
repeating  the  suggestion  to  have  'em  out,  and  to  pull  'em  out, 
mobbed  the  two  vehicles  so  closely  that  they  came  to  a  stop. 
On  the  crowd's  opening  the  coach  doors,  the  one  mourner 
scuffled  out  of  himself  and  was  in  their  hands  for  a  moment ; 
but  he  was  so  alert,  and  made  such  good  use  of  his  time,  that 
in  another  moment  he  was  scouring  away  up  a  by-street,  after 
shedding  his  cloak,  hat,  long  hatband,  white  pocket-handker- 
chief, and  other  symbolical  tears. 

These,  the  people  tore  to  pieces  and  scattered  far  and 
wide  with  great  enjoyment,  while  the  tradesmen  hurriedly 
shut  up  their  shops ;  for  a  crowd  in  those  times  stopped  at 
nothing,  and  was  a  monster  much  dreaded.  They  had 
already  got  the  length  of  opening  the  hearse  to  take  the 
coffin  out,  when  some  brighter  genius  proposed  instead,  its 
being  escorted  to  its  destination  amidst  general  rejoicing. 
Practical  suggestions  being  much  needed,  this  suggestion,  too, 
was  received  with  acclamation,  and  the  coach  was  immediately 
filled  with  eight  inside  and  a  dozen  out,  while  as  many  people 
got  on  the  roof  of  the  hearse  as  could  by  any  exercise  of  in- 
genuity stick  upon  it.  Among  the  first  of  these  volunteers 
was  Jerry  Cruncher  himself,  who  modestly  concealed  his 
spiky  head  from  the  observation  of  Tellson's,  in  the  further 
corner  of  the  mourning  coach. 

The  officiating  undertakers  made  some  protest  against 
these  changes  in  the  ceremonies  ;  but,  the  river  being  alarm- 
ingly near,  and  several  voices  remarking  on  the  efficacy  of 
cold  immersion  in  bringing  refractory  members  of  the  pro^ 
fession  to  reason,  the  protest  was  faint  and  brief.  The 
remodelled  procession  started,  with  a  chimney-sweep  driving 
the  hoarse — advised  by  the  regular  driver,  who  was  perched 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


beside  him,  under  close  inspection,  for  the  purpose — and  with 
a  pieman,  also  attended  by  his  cabinet  minister,  driving  the 
mourning  coach.  A  bear-leader,  a  popular  street  character 
of  the  time,  was  impressed  as  an  additional  ornament,  before 
the  cavalcade  had  gone  far  down  the  Strand  ;  and  his  bear, 
who  was  black  and  very  mangy,  gave  quite  an  Undertaking 
air  to  that  part  of  the  procession  in  which  he  walked. 

Thus,  with  beer-drinking,  pipe-smoking,  song-roaring,  and 
infinite  caricaturing  of  woe,  the  disorderly  procession  went  its 
way,  recruiting  at  every  step,  and  all  the  shops  shutting  up 
before  it.  Its  destination  was  the  old  church  of  Saint 
Pancras,  far  off  in  the  fields.  It  got  there  in  course  of  time  ; 
insisted  on  pouring  into  the  burial-ground  ;  finally,  accom- 
plished the  interment  of  the  deceased  Roger  Cly  in  its  own 
way,  and  highly  to  its  own  satisfaction. 

The  dead  man  disposed  of,  and  the  crowd  being  under  the 
necessity  of  providing  some  other  entertainment  for  itself, 
another  brighter  genius  (or  perhaps  the  same)  conceived  the 
humor  of  impeaching  casual  passers-by,  as  Old  Bailey  spies, 
and  wreaking  vengeance  on  them.  Chase  was  given  to  some 
scores  of  inoffensive  persons  who  had  never  been  near  the 
Old  Bailey  in  their  lives,  in  the  realization  of  this  fancy,  and 
they  were  roughly  hustled  and  maltreated.  The  transition  to 
the  sport  of  window-breaking,  and  thence  to  the  plundering  of 
public-houses,  was  easy  and  natural.  At  last,  after  several 
hours,  when  sundry  summer-houses  had  been  pulled  down, 
and  some  area-railings  had  been  torn  up,  to  arm  the  more 
belligerent  spirits,  a  rumor  got  about  that  the  Guards  were 
coming.  Before  this  rumor,  the  crowd  gradually  melted 
away,  and  perhaps  the  Guards  came,  and  perhaps  they  never 
came,  and  this  was  the  usual  progress  of  a  mob. 

Mr.  Cruncher  did  not  assist  at  the  closing  sports,  but  had 
remained  behind  in  the  churchyard,  to  confer  and  condole 
with  the  undertakers.  The  place  had  a  soothing  influence  on 
him.  He  procured  a  pipe  from  a  neighboring  public-house, 
and  smoked  it,  looking  in  at  the  railings  and  maturely  con- 
sidering the  spot. 

^' Jerry,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  apostrophizing  himself  in  his 
usual  way,  you  see  that  there  Cly  that  day,  and  you  see 
with  your  own  eyes  that  he  was  a  young  'un  and  a  straight 
made  ^un.'' 

Having  smoked  his  pipe  out,  and  ruminated  a  little  longer, 
he  turned  himself  about,  that  he  might  appear,  before  the  houl 


THE  HONEST  TRADESMAN. 


149 


ot  closing,  on  his  station  at  Tellson's.  Whether  his  medita- 
tions on  mortality  had  touched  his  liver,  or  whether  his 
general  health  had  been  previously  at  all  amiss,  or  v^hether 
he  desired  to  show  a  little  attention  to  an  eminent  man,  is  not 
so  much  to  the  purpose,  as  that  he  made  a  short  call  upon  his 
medical  adviser — a  distinguished  surgeon — on  his  way  back. 

Young  Jerry  relieved  his  father  with  dutiful  interest,  and 
reported  No  job  in  his  absence.  The  bank  closed,  the 
ancient  clerks  came  out,  the  usual  watch  was  set,  and  Mr. 
Cruncher  and  his  son  went  home  to  tea. 

"  New,  I  tell  you  where  it  is  !  "  said  Mr.  Cruncher  to  his 
wife  on  entering.  If,  as  a  honest  tradesman,  my  wenturs 
goes  wrong  to-night,  I  shall  make  sure  that  you've  been 
praying  again  me,  and  I  shall  work  you  for  it  just  the  same 
as  if  I  seen  you  do  it." 

The  dejected  Mrs.  Cruncher  shook  her  head. 

"Why,  you're  at  it  afore  my  face  !"  said  Mr.  Cruncher, 
with  signs  of  angry  apprehension. 

"  I  am  saying  nothing." 

"  Well,  then  ;  don't  meditate  nothing.  You  might  as  well 
flop  as  meditate.  You  may  as  well  go  again  me  one  way  as 
another.    Drop  it  altogether." 

"Yes,  Jerry." 

"Yes,  Jerry,"  repeated  Mr.  Cruncher  sitting  down  to  tea. 
"  Ah  !  It  is  yes,  Jerry.  That's  about  it.  You  may  say  yes, 
Jerry." 

Mr,  Cruncher  had  no  particular  meaning  in  these  sulky 
corroborations,  but  made  use  of  them,  as  people  not  unfre- 
quently  do,  to  express  general  ironical  dissatisfaction. 

"  You  and  your  yes,  Jerry,'^  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  taking  a 
bite  out  of  his  bread-and-butter,  and  seeming  to  help  it  down 
with  a  large  invisible  oyster  out  of  his  saucer.  "  Ah  !  I  think 
so.    I  believe  you." 

"  You  are  going  out  to-night  ? "  asked  his  decent  wife, 
when  he  took  another  bite. 

"  Yes,  f  am." 

"  May  I  go  with  you,  father?  "  asked  his  son,  briskly. 
"  No,  you  mayn't.    I'm  a  going — as  your  mother  knows— 
a  fishing.    That's  where  I'm  going  to.    Going  a  fishing." 
"  Your  fishing-rod  gets  rayther  rusty ;  don't  it,  father  ?  " 

Never  you  mind." 
*  Shall  you  bring  any  fish  home,  father  ? " 
If  I  don't,  you'll  have  short  commons,  to-morrow,"  re 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


turned  that  gentleman,  shaking  his  head ;  "  that's  questions 
enough  for  vou ;  I  ain't  a  going  out,  till  youVe  been  long  a- 
bed.'^ 

He  devoted  himself  during  the  remainder  of  the  evening 
to  keeping  a  most  vigilant  watch  on  Mrs.  Cruncher,  and  sul- 
lenly holding  her  in  conversation  that  she  might  be  prevented 
from  meditating  any  petitions  to  his  disadvantage.  With  this 
view,  he  urged  his  son  to  hold  her  in  conversation  also,  and 
led  the  unfortunate  woman  a  hard  life  by  dwelling  on  any 
causes  of  complaint  he  could  bring  against  her,  rather  than  he 
would  leave  her  for  a  moment  to  her  own  reflections.  The  de- 
voutest  person  could  have  rendered  no  greater  homage  to  the 
efficacy  of  an  honest  prayer  than  he  did  in  this  distrust  of  his 
wife.  It  was  as  if  a  protessed  unbeliever  in  ghosts  should  be 
frightened  by  a  ghost  story. 

And  mind  you,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher.  "  No  games  to- 
morrow !  If  I,  as  a  honest  tradesman,  succeed  in  providing 
a  jinte  of  meat  or  two,  none  of  your  not  touching  of  it,  and 
sticking  to  bread.  If  I,  as  a  honest  tradesman,  am  able  to 
provide  a  little  beer,  none  of  your  declaring  on  water.  When 
you  go  to  Rome,  do  as  Rome  does.  Rome  will  be  a  ugly 
customer  to  you,  if  you  don't.    7'm  your  Rome,  you  know." 

Then  he  began  grumbling  again  ; 

"  With  your  flying  into  the  face  of  your  own  wittles  and 
drink  !  I  don't  know  how  scarce  you  mayn't  make  the  wittles 
and  drink  here,  by  your  flopping  tricks  and  your  unfeeling 
conduct.  Look  at  your  boy  :  he  is  your'n,  ain't  he  ?  He's  as 
thin  as  a  lath.  Do  you  call  yourself  a  mother,  and  not  know 
that  a  mother's  first  duty  is  to  blow  her  boy  out  " 

This  touched  young  Jerry  on  a  tender  place  ;  who  adjured 
his  mother  to  perform  her  first  duty,  and,  whatever  else  she 
did  or  neglected,  above  all  things  to  lay  especial  stress  on  the 
discharge  of  that  maternal  function  so  affectingly  and  delicate 
ly  indicated  by  his  other  parent. 

Thus  the  evening  wore  away  with  the  Cruncher  family, 
until  Young  Jerry  was  ordered  to  bed,  and  his  mother,  laid 
under  similar  injunctions,  obeyed  them.  Mr.  Cruncher  be- 
guiled the  earlier  watches  of  the  night  with  solitary  pipes,  and 
did  not  start  upon  his  excursion  until  nearly  one  o'clock. 
Towards  that  small  and  ghostly  hour,  he  rose  up  from  his 
chair,  took  a  key  out  of  his  pocket,  opened  a  locked  cupboard, 
and  brought  forth  a  sack,  a  crowbar  of  convenient  size,  a  rope 
and  chain,  and  other  fishing  tackle  of  that  nature.  Disposing 


THE  HONEST  TRADESMAN. 


these  articles  about  him  in  skilful  manner,  he  bestowed  a 
parting  defiance  on  Mrs.  Cruncher,  extinguished  the  light, 
and  went  out. 

Young  Jerry,  who  had  only  made  a  feint  of  undressing 
when  he  went  to  bed,  was  not  long  after  his  father.  Under 
cover  of  the  darkness  he  followed  out  of  the  room,  followed 
down  the  stairs,  followed  down  the  court,  followed  out  inta 
the  streets.  He  was  in  no  uneasiness  concerning  his  getting; 
into  the  house  again,  for  it  was  full  of  lodgers,  and  the  door 
stood  ajar  all  night. 

Impelled  by  a  laudable  ambition  to  study  the  art  and  mys- 
tery of  his  father's  honest  calling,  Young  Jerry,  keeping  a:> 
close  to  house  fronts,  walls,  and  door-ways,,  as  his  eyes  were 
close  to  one  another,  held  his  honored  parent  in  view.  The 
honored  parent  steering  Northward,  had  not  gone  far,  when 
he  was  joined  by  another  disciple  of  Izaak  Walton,  and  the 
two  trudged  on  together. 

Within  half  an  hour  from  the  first  starting,  they  were  be- 
yond the  winking  lamps,  and  the  more  than  winking  watch- 
men, and  were  out  upon  a  lonely  road.  Another  fisherman 
was  picked  up  here — and  that  so  silently,  that  if  Young  Jerry 
had  been  superstitious,  he  might  have  supposed  the  second 
follower  of  the  gentle  craft  to  have,  all  of  a  sudden,  split  him- 
self into  two. 

The  three  went  on,  and  Young  Jerry  went  on,  until  the 
three  stopped  under  a  bank  overhanging  the  road.  Upon  the 
top  of  the  bank  was  a  low  brick  wall,  surmounted  by  an  iron 
railing.  In  the  shadow  of  bank  and  wall  the  three  turned 
out  of  the  road,  and  up  a  blind  lane,  of  which  the  wall — there, 
risen  to  some  eight  or  ten  feet  high — formed  one  side. 
Crouching  down  in  a  corner,  peeping  up  the  lane,  the  next 
object  that  Young  Jerry  saw,  was  the  form  of  his  honored 
parent,  pretty  well  defined  against  a  watery  and  clouded  moon, 
nimbly  scaling  an  iron  gate.  He  was  soon  over,  and  then 
the  second  fisherman  got  over,  and  then  the  third.  They  all 
dropped  softly  on  the  ground  within  the  gate,  and  lay  there 
a  little — listening  perhaps.  Then  they  moved  away  on  their 
hands  and  knees. 

It  was  now  Young  Jerry's  turn  to  approach  the  gate  : 
vvhich  he  did,  holding  his  breath.  Crouching  down  again  in  a 
corner  there,  and  looking  in,  he  made  out  the  three  fisher- 
men creeping  through  some  rank  grass !  and  all  the  grave- 
t^tones  in  the  churchyard — it  was  a  large  churchyard  that  they 


152 


A  TALE  GF  TWO  CITiES. 


were  in — looking  on  like  ghosts  in  white,  while  the  church  towei 
itself  looked  on  like  the  ghost  of  a  monstrous  giant.  The} 
did  not  creep  far,  before  they  stopped  and  stood  upright. 
And  then  they  began  to  fish. 

They  fished  with  a  spade  at  first.  Presently  the  honored 
parent  appeared  to  be  adjusting  some  instrument  like  a  great 
corkscrew.  Whatever  tools  they  worked  with,  they  worked 
hard,  until  the  awful  striking  of  the  church  clock  so  terrified 
Young  Jerry,  that  he  made  off,  with  his  hair  as  stiff  as  his 
father's. 

f3ut,  his  long-cherished  desire  to  know  more  about  these 
matters,  not  only  stopped  him  in  his  running  away,  but  lured 
him  back  again.  They  were  still  fishing  perseveringly,  when 
he  peeped  in  at  the  gate  for  the  second  time ;  but  now  they 
seemed  to  have  got  a  bite.  There  was  a  screwing  and  com- 
plaining sound  down  below,  and  their  bent  figures  were 
strained,  as  if  by  a  weight.  By  slow  degrees  the  veight 
broke  away  the  earth  upon  it,  and  came  to  the  surface. 
Young  Jerry  very  well  knew  what  it  would  be  ;  but,  when  he 
saw  it,  and  saw  his  honored  parent  about  to  wrench  it  open, 
he  was  so  frightened,  being  new  to  the  sight,  that  he  made 
off  again,  and  never  stopped  until  he  had  run  a  mile  or  more. 

He  would  not  have  stopped  then,  for  anything  less  neces- 
sary than  breath,  it  being  a  spectral  sort  of  race  that  he  ran, 
and  one  highly  desirable  to  get  to  the  end  of.  He  had  a 
strong  idea  that  the  coffin  he  had  seen  was  running  after  him; 
and,  pictured  as  hopping  on  behind  him,  bolt  upright,  upon 
its  narrow  end,  always  on  the  point  of  overtaking  him  and 
hopping  on  at  his  side — perhaps  taking  his  arm — it  was  a 
pursuer  to  shun.  It  was  an  inconsistent  and  ubiquitous  fiend 
too,  for,  while  it  was  making  the  whole  night  behind  him 
dreadful,  he  darted  out  into  the  roadway  to  avoid  dark  alleys, 
fearful  of  its  coming  hopping  out  of  them  like  a  dropsical 
boy's  Kite  without  tail  and  wings.  It  hid  in  door-ways  too, 
rubbing  its  horrible  shoulders  against  doors,  and  drawing 
them  up  to  its  ears,  as  if  it  were  laughing.  It  got  into  shad- 
ows on  the  road,  and  lay  cunningly  on  its  back  to  trip  him 
up.  All  this  time  it  was  incessantly  hopping  on  behind 
and  gaining  on  him,  so  that  when  the  boy  got  to  his  own  door 
he  had  reason  for  being  half  dead.  And  even  then  it  would 
not  leave  him,  but  followed  him  up  stairs  with  a  bump  on 
ever)  stair,  scrambled  into  bed  with  him,  and  bumped  down, 
dead  and  heavy,  on  his  breast  when  he  fell  asleep. 


THE  HONEST  TRADESMAN.  153 

From  his  oppressed  slumber,  Young  Jerry  in  his  closet 
was  awakened  after  daybreak  and  before  sunrise,  by  the 
presence  of  his  father  in  the  famHy  room.  Something  had 
gone  wrong  with  him  ;  at  least,  so  Young  Jerry  inferred, 
from  the  circumstance  of  his  holding  Mrs.  Cruncher  by  the 
ears,  and  knocking  the  back  of  her  head  against  the  head 
board  of  the  bed. 

"  I  told  you  I  would,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  "and  I  did.'' 

"  Jerry,  Jerry,  Jerry  !  "  his  wife  implored. 

"  You  oppose  yourself  to  the  profit  of  the  business,"  said 
Jerry,  "  and  me  and  my  partners  suffer.  You  was  to  honor 
and  obey  ;  why  the  devil  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  try  to  be  a  good  wife,  Jerry,"  the  poor  woman  protested, 
with  tears. 

Is  it  being  a  good  wife  to  oppose  your  husband's 
business  ?  Is  it  honoring  your  husband  to  dishonor  his  busi- 
ness ?  Is  it  obeying  your  husband  to  disobey  him  on  the  wital 
subject  of  his  business  ?  " 

Yot  hadn't  taken  to  the  dreadful  business  then,  Jerry." 
'*It's  enough  for  you,"  retorted  Mr.  Cruncher,  "to  be  the 
wife  of  a  honest  tradesman,  and  not  to  occupy  your  female 
mind  with  calculations  when  he  took  to  his  trade  or  when  he 
didn't.  A  honoring  and  obeying  wife  would  let  his  trade 
alone  altogether.  Call  yourself  a  religious  woman  1  If  you're 
a  religious  woman,  give  me  a  irreligious  one  !  You  have  no 
more  nat'ral  sense  of  duty  than  the  bed  of  this  here  Thames 
river  has  of  a  pile,  and  similarly  it  must  be  knocked  into 
you."^ 

The  altercation  was  conducted  in  a  low  tone  of  voice,  and 
terminated  in  the  honest  tradesman's  kicking  off  his  clay- 
soiled  boots,  and  lying  down  at  his  length  on  the  floor.  After 
taking  a  timid  peep  at  him  lying  on  his  back,  with  his  rusty 
hands  under  his  head  for  a  pillow,  his  son  lay  down  too,  and 
fell  asleep  again. 

There  was  no  fish  for  breakfast,  and  not  much  of  anything 
else.  Mr.  Cruncher  was  out  of  spirits,  and  out  of  temper, 
and  kept  an  iron  pot-lid  by  him  as  a  projectile  for  the  correc- 
tion of  Mrs.  Cruncher,  in  case  he  should  observe  any  symp- 
toms of  her  saying  Grace.  He  was  brushed  and  washed  at 
the  usual  hour,  and  set  off  with  his  son  to  pursue  his  osten- 
sible calling. 

Young  Jerry,  walking  with  the  stool  under  his  arm  at  his 
father's  side  a^ong  sunny  and  crowded  Fleet  Street,  was  a 


IS4 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


very  different  Young  Jerry  from  him  of  the  previous  nighty 
running  home  through  darkness  and  solitude  from  his  grim 
pursuer.  His  cunning  was  fresh  with  the  day,  and  his  quahns 
were  gone  with  the  night — in  which  particulars  it  is  not  im- 
probable  that  he  had  compeers  in  Fleet  Street  and  the  City 
of  London,  that  fine  morning. 

Father,''  said  Young  Jerry,  as  they  walked  along  :  tak- 
ing care  to  keep  at  arm's  length  and  to  have  the  stool  well 
between  them  :  "  what's  a  Resurrection-Man  ?  " 

Mr.  Cruncher  came  to  a  stop  on  the  pavement  before  he 
answered,  "  How  should  I  know  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  knowed  everything,  father,"  said  the  art- 
less boy. 

"  Hem  !  Well,"  returned  Mr.  Cruncher,  going  on  again, 
and  lifting  off  his  hat  to  give  his  spikes  free  play,  "  he's  a 
tradesman." 

"  What's  his  goods,  father  ? "  asked  the  brisk  Young 
Jerry. 

"  His  goods,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  after  turning  it  over  in 
his  mind,  "  is  a  branch  of  Scientific  goods." 

"  Persons'  bodies,  ain't  it,  father  ?  "  asked  the  lively  boy. 

"  I  believe  it  is  something  of  that  sort,"  observed  Mr. 
Cruncher. 

"  Oh,  father,  I  should  so  like  to  be  a  Resurrection-Man 
when  I'm  quite  growed  up  !  " 

Mr.  Cruncher  was  soothed,  but  shook  his  head  in  a  dubi 
ous  and  moral  way.  It  depends  upon  how  you  dewelop 
your  talents.  Be  careful  to  dewelop  your  talents,  and  never 
to  say  no  more  than  you  can  help  to  nobody,  and  there's  no 
telling  at  the  present  time  what  you  may  not  come  to  be  fit 
for."  As  Young  Jerry,  thus  encouraged,  went  on  a  few  yards 
in  advance,  to  plant  the  stool  in  the  shadow  of  the  Bar,  Mr. 
Cruncher  added  to  himself:  Jerry,  you  honest  tradesman, 
there's  hopes  wot  that  boy  will  yet  be  a  blessing  to  you,  and 
a  recompense  to  you  for  his  mother  !  " 


KNITTING. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

KNITTING. 

There  had  been  earlier  drinking  than  usual  in  the  wine* 
shop  of  Monsieur  Defarge.  As  early  as  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  sallow  faces  peeping  through  its  barred  windows  had 
descried  other  faces  within,  bending  over  measures  of  wine. 
Monsieur  Defarge  sold  a  very  thin  wine  at  the  best  of  times, 
but  it  would  seem  to  have  been  an  unusually  thin  wine  that 
he  sold  at  this  time.  A  sour'  wine,  moreover,  or  a  souring, 
for  its  influence  on  the  mood  of  those  who  drank  it  was  to 
make  them  gloomy.  No  vivacious  Bacchanalian  flame  leaped 
out  of  the  pressed  grape  of  Monsieur  Defarge  :  but,  a  smould- 
ering fire  that  burnt  in  the  dark,  lay  hidden  in  the  dregs  of  it. 

This  had  been  the  third  morning  in  succession,  on  which 
there  had  been  early  drinking  at  the  wine-shop  of  Monsieur 
Defarge.  It  had  begun  on  Monday,  and  here  was  Wednes- 
day come.  There  had  been  more  early  brooding  than  drink- 
ing ;  f(5r,  many  men  had  listened  and  whispered  and  slunk 
about  there  from  the  time  of  the  opening  of  the  door,  who 
could  not  have  laid  a  piece  of  money  on  the  counter  to  save 
their  souls.  These  were  to  the  full  as  interested  in  the  place, 
however,  as  if  they  could  have  commanded  whole  barrels  of 
wine ;  and  they  glided  from  seat  to  seat,  and  from  corner  to 
corner,  swallowing  talk  in  lieu  of  drink,  with  greedy  looks. 

Notwithstanding  an  unusual  flow  of  company,  the  master 
of  the  wine-shop  was  not  visible.  He  was  not  missed  ;  for, 
nobody  who  crossed  the  threshold  looked  for  him,  nobody 
asked  for  him,  nobody  wondered  to  see  only  Madame  Defarge 
in  her  seat,  presiding  over  the  distribution  of  wine,  with  a 
bowl  of  battered  small  coins  before  her,  as  much  defaced  and 
beaten  out  of  their  original  impress  as  the  small  coinage  of 
humanity  from  whose  ragged  pockets  they  have  come. 

A  suspended  interest  and  a  prevalent  absence  of  mind, 
were  perhaps  observed  by  the  spies  who  looked  in  at  the 
wine-shop,  as  they  looked  in  at  every  place,  high  and  low, 
from  the  king's  palace  to  the  criminal's  gaol.  Games  at  cards 
languished,  players  at  dominoes  musingly  built  towers  with 
them,  drinkers  drew  figures  on  the  tables  with  spilt  drops  of 


X  TALK  OF  V'H  'O  CITIES. 


wine.  Madame  Defarge  herself  picked  out  tlie  pattern  on  her 
sleeve  with  her  toothpick,  and  saw  and  heard  something  inau- 
dible and  invisible  a  long  way  off. 

Thus  Saint  Antoine  in  this  vinous  feature  of  his,  until 
midday.  It  was  high  noontide,  when  two  dusty  men  passed 
through  his  streets  and  under  his  swinging  lamps ;  of  whom^ 
one  was  Monsieur  Defarge ;  the  other  a  member  of  roads  in 
a  blue  cap.  All  adust  and  athirst,  the  two  entered  the  wine- 
shop. Their  arrival  had  lighted  a  kind  of  fire  in  the  breast  of 
Saint  Antoine,  fast  spreading  as  they  came  along,  which 
stirred  and  flickered  in  flames  of  faces  at  most  doors  and  win- 
dows. Yet,  no  one  had  followed  them,  and  no  man  spoke 
when  they  entered  the  wine-shop,  though  the  eyes  of  every 
man  there  were  turned  upon  them. 

"  Good-day,  gentlemen  !  "  said  Monsieur  Defarge. 

It  may  have  been  a  signal  for  loosening  the  general  tongue. 
It  elicited  an  answering  chorus  of    Good-day  !  " 

"  It  is  bad  weather,  gentlemen,''  said  Defarge,  shaking  his 
head. 

Upon  which,  every  man  looked  at  his  neighbor,  and  then 
all  cast  down  their  eyes  and  sat  silent.  Except  one  man,  who 
got  up  and  went  out. 

"  My  wife,"  said  Defarge  aloud,  addressing  Madanie  De- 
farge :  "  I  have  travelled  certain  leagues  wdth  this  good  men- 
der of  roads,  called  Jacques.  I  met  him — by  accident — a  day 
and  half's  journey  out  of  Paris.  He  is  a  good  child,  this 
mender  of  roads,  called  Jacques.  Give  him  to  drink,  my 
wife ! " 

A  second  man  got  up  and  went  out.  Madame  Defarge  set 
wine  before  the  mender  of  roads  called  Jacques,  who  doffed 
his  blue  cap  to  the  company,  and  drank.  In  the  breast  of  his 
blouse  he  carried  some  coarse  dark  bread ;  he  ate  of  this 
between  whiles,  and  sat  munching  and  drinking  near  Madame 
Defarge's  counter.    A  third  man  got  up  and  went  out. 

Defarge  refreshed  himself  with  a  draught  of  wine — but,  he 
took  less  than  was  given  to  the  stranger,  as  being  himself  a 
man  to  whom  it  was  no  rarity — and  stood  waiting  until  the 
countryman  had  made  his  breakfast.  He  looked  at  no  one 
present,  and  no  one  now^  looked  at  him  ;  not  even  Madame 
Defarge,  who  had  taken  up  her  knitting,  and  was  at  work. 

"  Have  you  finished  your  repast,  friend  t "  he  asked,  in 
due  season. 

"Yes,  thank  you." 


KNITTING, 


"  Come,  then !  You  shall  see  the  apartment  that  I  told 
you  you  could  occupy.    It  will  suit  you  to  a  marvel." 

Out  of  the  wine-shop  into  the  street,  out  of  the  street  into 
a  court-yard,  out  of  the  court-yard  up  a  steep  staircase,  out  of 
the  staircase  into  a  garret, — formerly  the  garret  where  a  white- 
haired  man  sat  on  a  low  bench,  stooping  forward  and  very 
busy,  making  shoes. 

No  white-haired  man  was  there  now ;  but,  the  three  men 
were  there  who  had  gone  out  of  the  wine-shop  singly.  And 
between  them  and  the  white-haired  man  afar  off,  was  the  one 
small  link,  that  they  had  once  looked  in  at  him  through  the 
chinks  in  the  wall. 

Defarge  closed  the  door  carefully,  and  spoke  in  a  subdued 
voice  : 

"Jacques  One,  Jacques  Two,  Jacques  Three  !  This  is  the 
witness  encountered  by  appointment,  by  me,  Jacques  Four. 
He  will  tell  you  all.    Speak,  Jacques  Five  !  " 

The  mender  of  roads,  blue  cap  in  hand,  wiped  his  swarthy 
forehead  with  it,  and  said,  "  Where  shall  I  commence.  Mon- 
sieur .5^'' 

"  Commence,"  was  Monsieur  Defarge's  not  unreasonable 
reply,  "  at  the  commencement." 

"  I  saw  him  then,  messieurs,"  began  the  mender  of  roads, 
"  a  year  ago  this  running  summer,  underneath  the  carriage  of 
the  Marquis,  hanging  by  the  chain.  Behold  the  manner  of  it. 
I  leaving  my  work  on  the  road,  the  sun  going  to  bed,  the  car- 
riage of  the  Marquis  slowly  ascending  the  hill,  he  hanging  by 
the  chain — like  this." 

♦Again  the  mender  of  roads  went  through  the  whole  per- 
formance ;  in  which  he  ought  to  have  been  perfect  by  that  time, 
seeing  that  it  had  been  the  infallible  resource  and  indispens- 
able entertainment  of  his  village  during  a  whoL^  year. 

Jacques  One  struck  in,  and  asked  if  he  had  ever  seen  the 
man  before  ? 

"  Never,"  answered  the  mender  of  roads,  recovering  his 
perpendicular. 

Jacques  Three  demanded  how  he  afterwards  recognized 
him  then  ? 

"  By  his  tall  figure,"  said  the  mender  of  roads,  softly,  and 
with  his  finger  at  his  nose.  "When  Monsieur  the  Marquis 
demands  that  evening,  *  Say,  what  is  he  like  ? '  I  make  re- 
sponse, '  Tall  as  a  spectre.'  " 

"  You  should  have  said,  short  as  a  dwarf,"  returned 
Jacques  Two. 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


"  But  what  did  I  know  ?  The  deed  was  not  then  accom< 
plished,  neither  did  he  confide  in  me.  Observe  !  Under  those 
circumstances  even,  I  do  not  offer  my  testimony.  Monsieur 
the  Marquis  indicates  me  with  his  finger,  standing  near  our 
little  fountain,  and  says,  *  To  me  !  Bring  that  rascal ! '  My 
faith,  messieurs,  I  offer  nothing.'' 

He  is  right  there,  Jacques,"  murmured  Defarge,  to  him 
who  had  interrupted.    "  Go  on  !  " 

Good  ! ''  said  the  mender  of  roads,  with  an  air  of  myster}\ 
The  tall  man  is  lost,  and  he  is  sought — how  many  months  ? 
Nine,  ten,  eleven.?'' 

No  matter,  the  number,"  said  Defarge.  "He  is  well 
hidden,  but  at  last  he  is  unluckily  found.    Go  on  !  " 

"  I  am  again  at  work  upon  the  hill-side,  and  the  sun  is 
again  about  to  go  to  bed.  I  am  collecting  my  tools  to  descend 
to  my  cottage  down  in  the  village  below,  where  it  is  already 
dark,  when  I  raise  my  eyes,  and  see  coming  over  the  hill  six 
soldiers.  In  the  midst  of  them  is  a  tall  man  with  his  arms 
bound — tied  to  his  sides — like  this  !  " 

With  the  aid  of  his  indispensable  cap,  he  represented  a 
man  with  his  elbows  bound  fast  at  his  hips,  with  cords  that 
were  knotted  behind  him. 

"  I  stand  aside,  messieurs,  by  my  heap  of  stones,  to  see  the 
soldiers  and  their  prisoner  pass  (for  it  is  a  solitary  road,  that, 
where  any  spectacle  is  well  worth  looking  at),  and  at  first,  as 
they  approach,  I  see  no  more  than  that  they  are  six  soldiers 
with  a  tall  man  bound,  and  that  they  are  almost  black  to  my 
sight — except  on  the  side  of  the  sun  going  to  bed,  where  they 
have  a  red  edge,  messieurs.  Also,  I  see  that  their  long 
shadows  are  on  the  hollow  ridge  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
road,  and  are  on  the  hill  above  *t,  and  are  like  the  shadows  of 
giants.  Also,  I  see  that  they  ate  covered  with  dust,  and  that 
the  dust  moves  with  them,  as  they  come,  tramp,  tramp  !  But 
when  they  advance  quite  near  to  me,  I  recognize  the  tall  man, 
and  he  recognizes  me.  Ah,  but  he  would  be  well  content  to 
precipitate  himself  over  the  hill-side  once  again,  as  on  the 
evening  when  he  and  I  first  encountered,  close  to  the  same 
spot  I " 

He  described  it  as  if  he  were  there,  and  it  was  evident 
that  he  saw  it  vividly ;  perhaps  he  had  not  seen  much  in  his 
life. 

"  I  do  not  show  the  soldiers  that  I  recognize  the  tall  man  / 
he  does  not  show  the  soldiers  that  he  recognizes  me  ;  we  do 


KNITTING. 


159 


it,  and  we  know  it,  with  our  eyes.  *  Come  on ! '  says  the  chief 
of  that  company,  pointing  to  the  village,  '  bring  him  fast  to  his 
tomb  ! '  and  they  bring  him  faster.  I  follow.  His  arms  are 
swelled  because  of  being  bound  so  tight,  his  wooden  shoes  are 
large  and  clumsy,  and  he  is  lame.  Because  he  is  lame,  and 
consequently  slow,  they  drive  him  with  their  guns — like 
this  ! 

He  imitated  the  action  of  a  man's  being  impelled  for- 
ward by  the  butt-ends  of  muskets. 

"  As  they  descend  the  hill  like  madmen  running  a  race, 
he  falls.  They  laugh  and  pick  him  up  again.  His  face  is 
bleeding  and  covered  with  dust,  but  he  cannot  touch  it: 
thereupon  they  laugh  again.  They  bring  him  into  the  village  , 
all  the  village  runs  to  look ;  they  take  him  past  the  mill,  and 
up  to  the  prison  ;  all  the  village  sees  the  prison  gate  open  in 
the  darkness  of  the  night,  and  swallow  him — like  this  !  " 

He  opened  his  mouth  as  wide  as  he  could,  and  shut  it 
with  a  sounding  snap  of  his  teeth.  Observant  of  his  unwill- 
ingness to  mar  the  effect  by  opening  it  again,  Defarge  said, 
"  Go  on,  Jacques." 

"  All  the  village,'*  pursued  the  mender  of  roads,  on  tiptoe 
and  in  a  low  voice,  withdraws;  all  the  village  whispers  by 
the  fountain  ;  all  the  village  sleeps  ;  all  the  village  dreams  of 
that  unhappy  one,  within  the  locks  and  bars  of  the  prison  on 
the  crag,  and  never  to  come  out  of  it,  except  to  perish.  In 
the  morning,  with  my  tools  upon  my  shoulder,  eating  my 
morsel  of  black  bread  as  I  go,  I  make  a  circuit  by  the  prison, 
on  my  way  to  my  work.  There  I  see  him,  high  up,  behind  the 
bars  of  a  lofty  iron  cage,  bloody  and  dusty  as  last  night,  look- 
ing through*  He  has  no  hand  free,  to  wave  to  me ;  I  dare 
not  call  to  him  ;  he  regards  me  like  a  dead  man.'' 

Defarge  and  the  three  glanced  darkly  at  one  another.  The 
looks  of  all  of  them  were  dark,  repressed,  and  revengeful,  as 
they  listened  to  the  countryman's  story  ;  the  manner  of  all  of 
them,  while  it  was  secret,  was  authoritative  too.  They  had  the 
ah  of  a  rough  tribunal ;  Jacques  One  and  Two  sitting  on  the  old 
pallet-bed,  each  with  his  chin  resting  on  his  hand,  and  his 
eyes  intent  on  the  road-mender ;  Jacques  Three,  equally  in- 
tent, on  one  knee  behind  them,  with  his  agitated  hand  always 
gliding  over  the  network  of  fine  ner^^es  about  his  mouth  and 
nose ;  Defarge  standing  between  them  and  the  narrator, 
whom  he  had  stationed  in  the  light  of  the  window,  by  turns 
looking  from  him  to  them,  and  froiU  thera  to  him. 


i6o 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


"  Go  on,  Jacques/'  said  Defarge. 

"  He  remains  up  there  in  his  iron  cage  some  days.  The 
village  looks  at  him  by  stealth,  for  it  is  afraid.  But  it  always 
looks  up,  from  a  distance,  at  the  prison  on  the  crag  ;  and 
in  the  evening,  when  the  work  of  the  day  is  achieved 
and  it  assembles  to  gossip  at  the  fountain,  all  faces  are 
turned  towards  the  prison.  Formerly,  they  were  turned  to- 
wards the  posting-house ;  now,  they  are  turned  towards  the 
prison.  They  whisper  at  the  fountain,  that  although  con- 
demned to  death  he  will  not  be  executed  ;  they  say  that  peti- 
tions have  -been  presented  in  Paris,  showing  that  he  was  en^ 
raged  and  made  mad  by  the  death  of  his  child  ;  they  say  that 
a  petition  has  been  presented  to  the  King  himself.  What  do 
I  know?    It  is  possible.    Perhaps  yes,  perhaps  no." 

Listen  then,  Jacques,"  Number  One  of  that  name  sternly 
interposed.  Know  that  a  petition  was  presented  to  the  King 
and  Queen.  All  here,  yourself  excepted,  saw  the  King  take 
it,  in  his  carriage  in  the  street,  sitting  beside  the  Queen.  It 
is  Defarge  whom  you  see  here,  who,  at  the  hazard  of  his  life, 
darted  out  before  the  horses,  with  the  petition  in  his  hand." 

"  And  once  again  listen,  Jacques  !  "  said  the  kneeling 
Number  Three  :  his  fingers  ever  wandering  over  and  over 
those  fine  nerves,  with  a  strikingly  greedy  air,  as*  if  he 
hungered  for  something — that  was  neither  food  nor  drink  ; 
"  the  guard,  horse  and  foot,  surrounded  the  petitioner,  and 
struck  him  blows.    You  hear  ?  " 

"  I  hear,  messieurs." 

"  Go  on  then,"  said  Defarge. 
Again;  on  the  other  hand,  they  whisper  at  the  foun- 
tain," resumed  the  countryman,  that  he  is  brought  down 
into  our  country  to  be  executed  on  the  spot,  and  that  he  will 
very  certainly  be  executed.  They  even  whisper  that  because 
he  has  slain  Monseigneur^  and  because  Monseigneur  was  the 
father  of  his  tenants — serfs — what  you  will — he  will  be  exe- 
cuted as  a  parricide.  One  old  man  says  at  the  fountain,  that 
his  right  hand  armed  with  a  knife,  will  be  burnt  off  before  his 
face  ;  that,  into  wounds  which  will  be  made  into  his  arms, 
his  breast,  and  his  legs,  there  will  be  poured  boiling  oil, 
melted  lead,  hot  resin,  wax,  and  sulphur  ;  finally  that  he  will 
be  torn  limb  from  limb  by  four  strong  horses.  That  old  man 
says,  all  this  was  actually  done  to  a  prisoner  who  made  an  at- 
tempt on  the  life  of  the  late  King,  Louis  Fifteen.  But  how 
do  I  know  if  he  lies  ?    I  am  not  a  scholar." 


KNITTING, 


i6i 


"  Listen  once  again  then,  Jacques !  "  said  the  man  with 
the  restless  hand  and  the  craving  air.  "  The  name  of  that 
prisoner  was  Damiens,  and  it  was  all  done  in  open  day,  in 
the  open  streets  of  this  city  of  Paris  ;  and  nothing  was  more 
noticed  in  the  vast  concourse  that  saw  it  done,  than  the  crowd 
of  ladies  of  quality  and  fashion,  who  were  full  of  eager  at 
tention  to  the  last  —  to  the  last,  Jacques,  prolonged  until 
nightfall,  when  he  had  lost  two  legs  and  an  arm,  and  still 
breathed !    And  it  was  done — why,  how  old  are  you  ?  " 

Thirty-five,''  said  the  mender  of  roads,  who  looked  sixty. 

"  It  was  done  when  you  were  more  than  ten  years  old  ; 
you  might  have  seen  it." 

"  Enough  !  "  said  Defarge,  with  grim  impatience.  "  Long 
live  the  Devil  !    Go  on." 

"  Well  !  Some  whisper  this,  some  whisper  that ;  they 
speak  of  nothing  else  ;  even  the  fountain  appears  to  fall  to 
that  tune.  At  length,  on  Sunday  night  when  all  the  village  is 
asleep,  come  soldiers,  winding  down  from  the  prison,  and 
their  guns  ring  on  the  stones  of  the  little  street.  Workmen 
dig,  Workmen  hammer,  soldiers  laugh  and  sing ;  in  the  morn- 
ing, by  the  fountain,  there  is  raised  a  gallows  forty  feet  high, 
poisoning  the  water." 

The  mender  of  roads  looked  through  rather  than  at  the 
low  ceiling,  and  pointed  as  if  he  saw  the  gallows  somewhere 
in  the  sky. 

"  All  work  is  stopped,  all  assemble  there,  nobody  leads 
the  cows  out,  the  cows  are  there  with  the  rest.  At  midday, 
the  roll  of  drums.  Soldiers  have  marched  into  the  prison  in 
the  night,  and  he  is  in  the  midst  of  many  soldiers.  He  is 
bound  as  before,  and  in  his  mouth  there  is  a  gag — tied  so, 
with  a  tight  string,  making  him  look  almost  as  if  he  laughed." 
He  suggested  it,  by  creasing  his  face  with  his  two  thumbs, 
from  the  corners  of  his  mouth  to  his  ears.  ^'  On  the  top  of 
the  gallows  is  fixed  the  knife,  blade  upwards,  with  its  point 
in  the  air.  He  is  hanged  there  forty  feet  high — and  is  left 
hanging,  poisoning  the  water." 

They  look  at  one  another,  as  he  used  his  blue  cap  to  wipe 
his  face,  on  which  the  perspiration  had  started  afresh  while 
he  recalled  the  spectacle. 

"It  is  frightful,  messieurs.  How  can  the  women  and 
the  children  draw  water !  Who  can  gossip  of  an  evening, 
under  that  shadow  !  Under  it,  have  I  said  ?  When  I  left 
the  village,  Monday  evening  as  the  sun  was  going  to  bed,  and 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


looked  back  from  the  hill,  the  shadow  struck  across  the 
church,  across  the  mill,  across  the  prison — ^^seemed  to  strike 
across  the  earth,  messieurs,  to  where  the  sky  rests  upon 
it!" 

The  hungry  man  gnawed  one  of  his  fingers  as  he  looked 
at  the  other  three,  and  his  finger  quivered  with  the  craving 
that  was  on  him. 

That's  all,  messieurs.  I  left  at  sunset  (as  I  had  been 
warned  to  do),  and  I  walked  on,  that  night  and  half  the  next 
day,  until  I  met  (as  I  was  warned  I  should)  this  comrade. 
With  him,  I  came  on,  now  riding  and  now  walking,  through 
the  rest  of  yesterday  and  through  last  night.  And  here  you 
see  me ! " 

After  a  gloomy  silence,  the  first  Jacques  said,  "  Good  !  You 
have  acted  and  recounted  faithfully.  Will  you  wait  for  us  a 
little,  outside  the  door?  " 

"  Very  willingly,''  said  the  mender  of  roads.  Whom  De- 
farge  escorted  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and,  leaving  seated 
there,  returned. 

The  three  had  risen,  and  their  heads  were  together  when 
he  came  back  to  the  garret. 

"  How  say  you,  Jacques  ?  "  demanded  Number  One.  "  To 
be  registered  ? " 

"  To  be  registered,  as  doomed  to  destruction,"  returned 
Defarge. 

"  Magnificent !  "  croaked  the  man  with  the  craving. 

"  The  chateau,  and  all  the  race  ? "  inquired  the  first. 

"The  chateau  and' all  the  race,"  returned  Defarge. 
"  Extermination." 

The  hungry  man  repeated,  in  a  rapturous  croak,  "  Magnifi- 
cent !  "  and  began  g»awing  another  finger. 

Are  you  sure,"  asked  Jacques  Two,  of  Defarge,  "  that 
no  embarrassment  can  arise  from  our  manner  of  keeping  the 
register  ?  Without  doubt  it  is  safe,  for  no  one  beyond  our- 
selves can  decipher  it ;  but  shall  we  always  be  able  to  decipher 
it — or,  I  ought  to  say,  will  she  ?  " 

"  Jacques,"  returned  Defarge,  drawing  himself  up,  "  if 
madrjiic  my  wife  undertook  to  keep  the  register  in  her  memory 
alcnc,  she  would  not  lose  a  word  of  it — not  a  syllable  of  it. 
Knitted,  in  her  own  stitches,  and  her  own  symbols,  it  will 
always  be  as  plain  to  her  as  the  sun.  Confide  in  Madame 
Defarge.  It  would  be  easier  for  the  weakest  poltroon  that 
lives,  to  erase  himself  from  existence,  than  to  erase  one  letter 


KNITTING. 


from  his  name  or  crimes  from  the  knitted  register  of:  Madame 
Defarge." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  confidence  and  approval,  and  then 
the  man  who  hungered  asked  :  Is  this  rustic  to  be  sent  back 
soon  ?  I  hope  so.  He  is  very  simple ;  is  he  not  a  little  dan- 
gerous ? " 

^'He  knows  nothing/' said  Defarge;  "at  least  nothing 
more  than  would  easily  elevate  himself  to  a  gallows  of  the 
same  height.  I  charge  myself  with  him  ;  let  him  remain  with 
me  ;  I  will  take  care  of  him,  and  set  him  on  his  road.  He 
wishes  to  see  the  fine  world — the  King,  the  Queen,  and  Court ; 
let  him  see  them  on  Sunday." 

"  What  ? exclaimed  the  hungry  man,  staring.  "  Is  it  a 
good  sign,  that  he  wishes  to  see  Royalty  and  Nobility? 

"  Jacques,"  said  Defarge  ;  "  judiciously  show  a  cat  milk, 
if  you  wish  her  to  thirst  for  it.  Judiciously  show  a  dog  his 
natural  prey,  if  you  wish  him  to  bring  it  down  one  day,'' 

Nothing  more  was  said,  and  the  mender  of  roads,  being 
found  already  dozing^  on  the  topmost  stair,  was  advised  to 
lay  himself  down  on  the  pallet-bed  and  take  some  rest  He 
needed  no  persuasion,  and  was  soon  asleep. 

Worse  quarters  than  Defarge 's  v/ine-shop,  could  easily  have 
been  found  in  Paris  for  a  provincial  slave  of  that  degree. 
Saving  for  a  mysterious  dread  of  madame  by  which  he  was 
constantly  haunted,  his  life  was  very  new  and  agreeable.  But 
madame  sat  all  day  at  her  counter,  so  expressively  uncon- 
s(;ious  of  him,  and  so  particularly  determined  not  to  perceive 
that  his  being  there  had  any  connection  with  anything  below 
the  surface,  that  he  shook  in  his  wooden  shoes  whenever  his 
eye  lighted  on  her.  For,  he  contended  with  himself  that  it 
was  impossible  to  foresee  what  that  lady  might  pretend  next ; 
and  he  felt  assured  that  if  she  should  take  it  into  her  brightly 
ornamented  head  to  pretend  that  she  had  seen  him  do  a  mur- 
der and  afterwards  flay  the  victim,  she  would  infallibly  go 
through  with  it  until  the  play  was  played  out. 

Therefore,  when  Sunday  came,  the  mender  of  roads  was  not 
enchanted  (though  he  said  he  was)  to  find  that  madame  was 
to  accompany  monsieur  and  himself  to  Versailles.  It  was 
additionally  disconcerting  to  have  madame  knitting,  all  the 
way  there,  in  a  pubHc  conveyence  ;  it  was  additionally  discon- 
certing yet,  to  have  madame  in  the  crowd  in  the  afternoon, 
still  with  her  knittins^  in  her  liands  as  the  crowd  waited  to  see 
the  carriage  of  the  King  and  Queen. 


r64 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


"You  work  hard,  madame,"  said  a  man  near  her. 
"Yes/'  answered  Madame  Defarge  ;  "I  have  a  good  dea 
\o  do.'' 

"  What  do  you  make,  madame  ?  " 
Many  things." 
For  instance  " 

For  instance,"  returned  Madame  Defarge,  composedly, 
shrouds." 

The  man  moved  a  Httle  further  away,  as  soon  as  he  could, 
and  the  mender  of  roads  fanned  himself  with  his  blue  cap  :  feel- 
ing it  mightily  close  and  oppressive.  If  he  needed  a  King  and 
Queen  to  restore  him,  he  was  fortunate  in  having  his  remedy 
at  hand  ;  for,  soon,  the  large  faced  King  and  the  fair-faced 
Queen  came  in  their  golden  coach,  attended  by  the  shining 
Bull's  Eye  of  their  Court,  a  glittering  multitude  of  laughing 
ladies  and  fine  lords  ;  and  in  jewels  and  silks  and  powder  and 
splendor  and  elegantly  spurning  figures  and  handsomely  dis- 
dainful faces  of  both  sexes,  the  mender  of  roads  bathed  him- 
self, so  much  to  his  temporary  intoxicatk)n,  that  he  cried  Long 
live  the  King,  Long  live  the  Queen,  Long  live  everybody  and 
everything!  as  if  he  never  heard  of  ubiquitous  Jacques  in  his 
time.  Then,  there  were  gardens,  court-yards,  terraces,  foun- 
tains, green  banks,  more  King  and  Queen,  more  Bull's  Eye, 
more  lords  and  ladies,  more  Long  liv^  they  all  !  until  he  ab- 
solutely wept  with  sentiment.  During  the  whole  of  this 
scene  which  lasted  some  three  hours,  he  had  plenty  of  shout- 
ing and  weeping  and  sentimental  company,  and  throughout 
Defarge  held  him  by  the  collar,  as  if  to  restrain  him  from  fly- 
ing at  the  objects  of  his  brief  devotion  and  tearing  them  to 
pieces. 

"  Bravo  !  "  said  Defarge,  clapping  him  on  the  back  when  it 
was  over,  like  a  patron  ;  "  you  are  a  good  boy !  " 

The  mender  of  roads  was  now  coming  to  himself,  and 
was  mistrustful  of  having  made  a  mistake  in  his  late  demon- 
strations  ;  but  no. 

You  are  the  fellow  we  want,"  said  Defarge,  in  his 
ear  ;  "  you  make  these  fools  believe  that  it  will  last  ioi 
ever.  Then,  they  are  the  more  insolent,  and  it  is  the  nearer 
ended." 

"  Hey !  "  cried  the  mender  of  the  roads,  reflectively  \ 
"that's  true." 

"  These  fools  know  nothing.  While  they  despise  youi 
breath,  and  would  stop  it  for  ever  and  ever,  in  you  or  in  g 


STILL  lOVITTLNG. 


hundred  like  you  rather  than  in  one  of  their  own  horses  or 
dogs,  they  only  know  what  your  breath  tells  them.  Let  it 
deceive  them,  then,  a  little  longer ;  it  cannot  deceive  them  too 
much/' 

Madame  Defarge  looked  superciliously  at  the  client,  and 
nodded  in  confirmation. 

As  to  you,"  said  she,  "you  would  shout  and  shed  tears 
for  anything,  if  it  made  a  show  and  a  noise.  Say  1  Would 
you  not  ? 

"  Truly  madame,  I  think  so.    For  the  moment." 

"  If  you  were  shown  a  great  heap  of  dolls,  and  were  set 
upon  them  to  pluck  them  to  pieces  and  despoil  them  for  yc^r 
own  advantage,  you  would  pick  out  the  richest  and  gayesri 
Say  !    Would  you  not } ^ 

"  Truly  yes,  madame." 

"  Yes.  And  if  you  were  shown  a  flock  of  birds,  unable  to 
fly,  and  were  set  upon  them  to  strip  them  of  their  feathers  for 
your  own  advantage,  you  would  set  upon  the  birds  of  the 
finest  feathers  ;  would  you  not  ?  " 

"  It  is  true,  madame." 
^  "You  have  seen  both  dolls  and  birds  to-day,"  said  Madame 
Defarge,  with  a  wave  of  her  hand  towards  the  place  where 
they  had  last  been  apparent ;  "  now,  go  home  1 " 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

STILL  KNITTING. 

Madame  Defarge  and  monsieur  her  husband  returned 
amicably  to  the  bosom  of  Saint  Antoine,  while  a  speck  in  a 
blue  cap  toiled  through  the  darkness,  and  through  the  dust, 
and  down  the  weary  miles  of  avenue  by  the  wayside,  slowly 
tending  towards  that  point  of  the  compass  where  the  chPiteau 
of  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  now  in  his  grave,  listened  to  the 
whispering  trees.  Such  ample  leisure  had  the  stone  faces, 
now,  for  listening  to  the  trees  and  to  the  fountain,  that  the 
few  village  scarecrows  who,  in  their  quest  for  herbs  to  eat  and 
fragments  of  dead  stick  to  burn,  strayed  within  sight^of  the 
great  stone  court-yard  and  terrace  staircase^  had  it  borne  in 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES- 


upon  their  starved  fancy  that  the  expression  of  the  faces  was 
altered.  A  rumor  just  lived  in  the  village — had  a  faint  and 
bare  existence  there,  as  its  people  had — that  when  the  knife 
struck  home,  the  faces  changed,  from  faces  of  pride  to  faces 
of  anger  and  pain ;  also,  that  when  that  dangling  figure  was 
hauled  up  forty  feet  above  the  fountain,  they  changed  again, 
and  bore  a  cruel  look  of  being  avenged,  which  they  would 
henceforth  bear  for  ever.  In  the  stone  face  over  the  great 
window  of  the  bed-chamber  where  the  murder  was  done,  two 
fine  dints  were  pointed  out  in  the  sculptured  nose,  which 
everybody  recognized,  and  which  nobody  had  seen  of  old; 
and  on  the  scarce  occasions  when  two  or  three  ragged  peasants 
emerged  from  the  crowd  to  take  a  hurried  peep  at  Monsieur 
the  Marquis  petrified,  a  skinny  finger  would  not  have  pointed 
to  it  for  a  minute,  before  they  all  started  away  among  the 
moss  and  leaves,  like  the  more  fortunate  hares  who  could  find 
a  living  there. 

Chateau  and  hut,  stone  face  and  dangling  figure,  the  red 
stain  on  the  stone  floor,  and  the  pure  water  in  the  village  well 
— thousands  of  acres  of  land — a  whole  province  of  France — ■ 
all  France  itself — lay  under  the  night  sky,  concentrated  into 
a  faint  hair-breadth  line.  So  does  a  whole  world,  with  all  its 
greatnesses  and  littlenesses,  lie  in  a  twinkling  star.  And  as 
mere  human  knowledge  can  split  a  ray  of  light  and  analyze 
the  manner  of  its  composition,  so,  sublimer  intelligences  may 
read  in  the  feeble  shining  of  this  earth  of  ours,  every  thought 
and  act,  every  vice  and  virtue,  of  every  responsible  creature 
on  it 

The  Defarges,  husband  and  wife,  came  lumbering  under 
the  starlight,  in  their  public  vehicle,  to  that  gate  of  Paris 
whereunto  their  journey  naturally  tended.  There  was  the 
usual  stoppage  at  the  barrier  guard-house,  and  the  usual  lan- 
terns came  glancing  forth  for  the  usual  examination  and 
inquiry.  Monsieur  Defarge  alighted  ;  knowing  one  or  two  of 
the  soldiery  there,  and  one  of  the  police.  The  latter  he  was 
intimate  with,  and  affectionately  embraced. 

When  Saint  Antoine  Jiad  again  enfolded  the  Defarges  in 
his  dusky  wings,  and  they,  having  finally  alighted  near  the 
Saint's  boundaries,  were  picking  their  way  on  foot  through 
the  black  mud  and  offal  of  his  streets,  Madame  Defarge  spoke 
to  her  husband  : 

"  Say  then,  my  friend  \  what  did  Jacques  of  the  police  tell 
thee?" 


STILL  KNITTING. 


167 


"  Very  little  to-night,  but  all  he  knows.  There  is  another 
spy  commissioned  for  our  quarter.  There  may  be  many 
more,  for  all  that  he  can  say,  but  he  knows  of  one.'^ 

"  Eh  well  !  "  said  Madame  Defarge,  raising  her  eyebrows 
with  a  cool  business  air.  "  It  is  necessary  to  register  him. 
How  do  they  call  that  man  } " 

"He  is  English." 

*'  So  much  the  better.    His  name  ?  " 

"  Barsad,"  said  Defarge,  making  it  French  by  pronunci- 
ation. But  he  had  been  so  careful  to  get  it  accurately,  that  he 
then  spelt  it  with  perfect  correctness, 

"  Barsad,"  repeated  madame.    "  Good.    Christian  name  ?  " 

"John." 

"  John  Barsad,"  repeated  madame,  after  murmuring  it 
once  to  herself.    "  Good.    His  appearance  ;  is  it  known  ?  " 

"  Age,  about  forty  years  ;  height,  about  five  feet  nine  ;  black 
hair  ;  complexion  dark ;  generally,  rather  handsome  visage ; 
eyes  dark,  face  thin,  long,  and  sallow ;  nose  aquiline,  but  not 
straight,  having  a  peculiar  inclination  towards  the  left  cheek  j 
expression  therefore,  sinister." 

"  Eh  my  faith.  It  is  a  portrait !  "  said  madame,  laughing. 
*  He  shall  be  registered  to-morrow." 

They  turned  into  the  wine-shop,  which  was  closed  (for  it 
was  midnight),  and  where  Madame  Defarge  immediately  took 
her  post  at  her  desk,  counted  the  small  moneys  that  had  been 
taken  during  her  absence,  examined  the  stock,  went  through 
the  entries  of  the  book,  made  other  entries  of  her  own,  checked 
the  serving  man  in  every  possible  way,  and  finally  dismissed 
him  to  bed.  Then  she  turned  out  the  contents  of  the  bowl  of 
money  for  the  second  time,  and  began  knotting  them  up  in 
her  handkerchief,  in  a  chain  of  separate  knots,  for  safe  keep- 
ing through  the  night.  All  this  while,  Defarge,  with  his  pipe 
in  his  mouth,  walked  up  and  down,  complacently  admiring, 
but  never  interfering  ;  in  which  condition,  indeed,  as  to  the 
business  and  his  domestic  affairs,  he  walked  up  and  down 
through  life. 

The  night  was  hot,  and  the  shop,  close  shut  and  sur- 
rounded by  so  foul  a  neighborhood,  was  ill-smelling.  Mon- 
sieur Defarge's  olfactory  sense  was  by  no  means  delicate,  but 
the  stock  of  wine  smelt  much  stronger  than  it  ever  tasted,  and 
so  did  the  stock  of  rum  and  brandy  and  aniseed.  He  whiffed 
the  compound  of  scents  away,  as  he  put  down  his  smoked-out 
pipe. 

8 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


You  are  fatigued,"  said  madame,  raising  her  glance  as 
she  knotted  the  money.      There  are  only  the  usual  odors." 

1  am  a  little  tired,"  her  husband  acknowledged. 
"  You  are  a  little  depressed,  too,"  said  madame,  whose 
quick  eyes  had  never  been  so  intent  on  the  accounts,  but  thej 
had  had  a  ray  or  two  for  him.      Oh,  the  men,  the  men !  " 

But  my  dear  !  "  began  Defarge. 

But  my  dear  !  "  repeated  madame,  nodding  firmly ;  "  but 
my  dear  !    You  are  faint  of  heart  to-night,  my  dear  I " 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Defarge,  as  if  a  thought  were  wrung 
out  of  his  breast,  "it  is  a  long  time." 

"It  is  a  long  time,"  repeated  his  wife;  "and  when  is  it 
not  a  long  time  ?  Vengeance  and  retribution  require  a  long 
time  ;  it  is  the  rule." 

"It  does  not  take  a  long  time  to  strike  a  man  with  Light- 
ning," said  Defarge. 

"  How  long,"  demanded  madame,  composedly,  "does  it 
take  to  make  and  store  the  lightnmg  ?    Tell  me." 

Defarge  raised  his  head  thoughtfully,  as  if  there  were 
something  in  that  too. 

"It  does  not  take  a  long  time,"  said  madame,  "for  an 
earthquake  to  swallow  a  town.  Eh  well !  Tell  me  how  long 
it  takes  to  prepare  the  earthquake  ?  "  * 

"A  long  time,  I  suppose,"  said  Defarge. 

"  But  when  it  is  ready,  it  takes  place,  and  grinds  to  pieces 
everything  before  it.  In  the  meantime,  it  is  always  preparing, 
though  it  is  not  seen  or  heard.  That  is  your  consolation. 
Keep  it." 

She  tied  a  knot  with  flashing  eyes,  as  if  it  throttled  a  foe. 

"  I  tell  thee,"  said  madame,  extending  her  right  hand,  for 
emphasis,  "  that  although  it  is  a  long  time  on  the  road,  it  is 
on  the  road  and  coming.  I  tell  thee  it  never  retreats,  and 
never  stops.  I  tell  thee  it  is  always  advancing.  Look  around 
and  consider  the  lives  of  all  the  world  that  we  know,  consider 
the  faces  of  all  the  world  that  we  know,  consider  the  rage  and 
discontent  to  which  the  Jacquerie  addresses  itself  with  more 
and  more  of  certainty  every  hour.  Can  such  things  last.^ 
Bah  ?   I  mock  you." 

"  My  brave  wdfe,"  returned  Defarge,  standing  before  her 
w^th  his  head  a  little,  bent,  and  his  hands  clasped  at  his  back, 
like  a  docile  and  attentive  pupil  before  his  catechist,  "  I  do 
not  question  all  this.  But  it  has  lasted  a  long  time,  and  it  is 
possible — you  know  well  my  wife,  it  is  possible — that  it  maj 
not  come,  during  our  Uves/' 


STILL  KNITTING. 


"  Eh  well  !  -^How  then  ?  "  demanded  madame,  tying  an- 
other knot,  as  if  there  were  another  enemy  strangled. 

"  Well ! "  said  Defarge,  with  a  half  complain.mg  and  half 
apologetic  shrug.    "  We  shall  not  see  the  triumph." 

We  shall  have  helped  it"  returned  madame,  with  her 
extended  hand  in  strong  action.  "  Nothing '  that  we  do,  is 
done  in  vain.  I  believe,  with  all  my  soul,  that  we  shall  see 
the  triumph.  But  even  if  not,  even  if  I  knew  certainly  not, 
show  me  the  neck  of  an  aristocrat  and  tyrant,  and  still  I 
would  " 

Then  madame,  with  her  teeth  set,  tied  a  very  terrible  knot 
indeed. 

"  Hold  !  "  cried  Defarge,  reddening  a  little  as  if  he  felt 
charged  with  cowardice  ,  "  I  too,  my  dear,  will  stop  at  noth- 
ing." 

Yes  !  But  it  is  your  weakness  that  you  sometimes  need 
to  see  your  victim  and  your  opportunity,  to  sustain  you.  Sus- 
tain yourself  without  that.  When  the  time  comes,  let  loose  a 
tiger  and  a  devil  but  wait  for  the  time  with  the  tiger  and  the 
devil  chained — not  shown — yet  always  ready." 

Madame  enforced  the  conclusion  of  this  piece  of  advice 
by  striking  her  little  counter  with  her  chain  of  money  as  if 
she  knocked  its  brains  out,  and  then  gathering  the  heavy 
handkerchief  under  her  arm  in  a  serene  manner,  and  observ 
ing  that  it  was  tim.e  to  go  to  bed. 

Next  noontide  saw  the  admirable  woman  in  her  usual 
place  in  the  wme-shop,  knitting  away  assiduously.  A  rose 
lay  beside  her,  and  if  she  now  and  then  glanced  at  the  flower, 
it  was  with  no  infraction  of  her  usual  pre-occupied  air.  There 
were  a  few  customers,  drinking  or  not  drinking,  standing  or 
seated,  sprinkled  about.  The  day  was  very  hot,  and  heaps 
of  flies,  who  were  extending  their  inquisitive  and  adventurous 
perquisitions  into  all  the  glutinous  little  glasses  near  madame, 
fell  dead  at  the  bottom.  Their  decease  made  no  impression 
on  the  other  flies  out  promenading,  who  looked  at  them  in 
the  coolest  manner  (as  if  they  themselves  were  elephants,  or 
something  as  far  removed),  until  they  met  the  same  fate. 
Curious  to  consider  how  heedless  flies  are  ! — perhaps  they 
thought  as  much  at  Court  that  sunny  summer  day. 

A  figure  entering  at  the  door  threw  a  shadow  on  Madame 
Defarge  which  she  felt  to  be  a  new  one.  She  laid  down  her 
knitting,  and  began  to  pin  her  rose  in  her  head-dress,  before 
she  looked  at  the  hgure. 


170 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


It  was  curious.  The  moment  Madame  -Defarge  took  up 
the  rose,  the  customers  ceased  talking,  and  began  gradually 
to  drop  out  o^  the  wine-shop. 

"  Good-day,  madame,"  said  the  new  comer. 

"Good-day,  monsieur."  , 

She  said  it  aloud,  but  added  to  herself,  as  she  resumed 
her  knitting :  "  Hah !  Good-day,  age  about  forty,  height 
about  five  feet  nine,  black  hair,  generally  rather  handsome 
visage,  complexion  dark,  eyes  dark,  thin  long  and  sallow  face, 
aquiline  nose  but  not  straight,  having  a  peculiar  inclination 
towards  the  left  cheek  which  imparts  a  sinister  expression  ! 
Good-day,  one  and  all !  " 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  give  me  a  little  glass  of  old  cognac, 
and  a  mouthful  of  cool  fresh  water,  madame.'^ 

Madame  complied  with  a  polite  air. 
Marvellous  cognac  this,  madame  1  " 

It  was  the  first  time  it  had  ever  been  so  complimented, 
and  Madame  Defarge  knew  enough  of  its  antecedents  to 
know  better.  She  said,  however,  that  the  cognac  was  flat- 
tered, and  took  up  her  knitting.  The  visitor  watched  her 
fingers  for  a  few  moments,  and  took  the  opportunity  of  ob- 
serving the  place  in  general. 

"  You  knit  with  great  skill,  madame." 

"  I  am  accustomed  to  it." 

"  A  pretty  pattern  too  ! " 

You  think  so  ? "  said  madame,  looking  at  him  with  a 

smile. 

"  Decidedly.    May  one  ask  what  it  is  for  ?  " 
"  Pastime,"  said  madame,  still  looking  at  him  with  a  smile, 
while  her  fingers  moved  nimbly. 
Not  for  use  ?  " 

"That  depends.    I  may  find  a  use  for  it  one  day.    If  I 

do  well,"  said  madame,  drawing  a  breath  and  nodding 

her  head  with  a  stern  kind  of  coquetry,  "  I'll  use  it ! " 

It  was  remarkable  ;  but,  the  taste  of  Saint  Antoine  seemed 
to  be  decidedly  opposed  to  a  rose  on  the  head-dress  of  Madame 
Defarge.  Two  men  had  entered  separately,  and  had  been 
about  to  order  drink,  when,  catching  sight  of  that  novelty, 
they  faltered,  made  a  pretence  of  looking  about  as  if  for  some 
friend  who  was  not  there,  and  went  away.  Nor,  of  those  who 
had  been  there  when  this  visitor  entered,  was  there  one  left. 
They  had  all  dropped  off.  The  spy  had  kept  his  eyes  open, 
but  had  been  able  to  detect  no  sign.    They  had  lounged 


STILL  KNITTING, 


171 


away  in  a  poverty-stricken,  purposeless,  accidental  manner, 
quite  natural  and  unimpeachable. 

"John,"  thought  madame,  checking  off  her  work  as  her 
lingers  knitted,  and  her  eyes  looked  at  the  stranger.  Stay 
long  enough,  and  I  shall  knit  '  Barsad  '  before  you  go/^ 

"  You  have  a  husband,  madame  ?  " 

"  I  have, 

«  Children?" 

V  No  children." 
Business  seems  bad  ? " 

Business  is  very  bad  ;  the  people  are  so  poor. 

"  Ah,  the  unfortunate,  miserable  people  !  So  oppressed, 
too — as  you  say,'' 

"  As  joti  say,"  madame  retorted,  correcting  him,  and  deftly 
knitting  an  extra  something  into  his  name  that  boded  him  no 
good. 

"  Pardon  me ;  certainly  it  w^as  I  who  said  so,  but  you 
naturally  think  so.    Of  course." 

"/  think  ?  "  returned  madame,  in  a  high  voice.  "  I  and 
my  husband  have  enough  to  do  to  keep  this  wine-shop  open, 
without  thinking.  All  we  think,  here,  is  how  to  live.  That 
is  the  subject  we  think  of,  and  it  gives  us,  from  morning  to 
night,  enough  to  think  about,  without  embarrassing  our  heads 
concerning  others.    /  think  for  others  ?    No,  no." 

The  spy,  who  was  there  to  pick  up  any  crumbs  he  could 
find  or  make,  did  not  allow  his  baffled  state  to  express  itself 
in  his  sinister  face  ;  but,  stood  with  an  air  of  gossiping  gal- 
lantry, leaning  his  elbow  on  Madame  Defarge's  little  counter, 
and  occasionally  sipping  his  cognac. 

A  bad  business  this,  madame,  of  Gaspard's  execution. 
Ah  !  the  poor  Gaspard  !  "    With  a  sigh  of  great  compassion. 

''My  faith!"  returned  m.adame,  coolly  and  lightly,  ''if 
people  use  knives  for  such  purposes,  they  have  to  pay  for  it. 
He  knew  beforehand  what  the  price  of  his  luxury  was ;  he  has 
paid  the  price." 

''  I  believe,"  said  the  spy,  dropping  his  soft  voice  to  a  tone 
that  invited  confidence,  and  expressing  an  injured  revolu- 
tionary susceptibility  in  every  muscle  of  his  wicked  face :  "  I 
believe  there  is  much  compassion  and  anger  in  this  neighbor- 
hood, touching  the  poor  fellow  }    Between  ourselves." 

"  Is  there  ? "  asked  madame,  vacantly. 

"Is  there  not?  " 

" — Here  is  my  husband  ! "  said  Madame  Defarge. 


1^2 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


As  the  keeper  of  the  wine-shop  entered  at  the  door,  the 
spy  saluted  him  by  touching  his  hat,  and  saying,  with  aa 
engaging  smile,  "Good-day,  Jacques  T'  Defarge  stopped 
short,  and  stared  at  him. 

"  Good-day,  Jacques  ! the  spy  repeated  ;  with  not  quite 
so  much  confidence,  or  quite  so  easy  a  smile  under  the  starCo 
You  deceive  yourself,  monsieur,"  returned  the  keeper  of 
ihe  wine-shop.    "  You  mistake  me  for  another.    That  is  not 
my  name.    I  am  Ernest  Defarge.'^ 

"  It  is  all  the  same,"  said  the  spy,  airily,  but  discomfited 
too  :    good-day  !  " 

Good-day  !  "  ans\yered  Defarge,  dryly. 

"  I  was  saying  to  madame,  with  whom  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  chatting  when  you  entered,  that  they  tell  me  there  is — and 
no  wonder! — much  sympathy  and  anger  in  Saint  Antoine, 
touching  thci  unhappy  fate  of  poor  Gaspard." 

No  one  has  told  me  so,"  said  Defarge,  shaking  his  head. 
"  I  know  nothing  of  it." 

Having  said  it,  he  passed  behind  the  little  counter,  and 
stood  with  his  hand  on  the  back  of  his  wife's  chair,  looking 
over  that  barrier  at  the  person  to  whom  they  were  both  op- 
posed, and  whom  either  of  them  would  have  shot  with  the 
greatest  satisfaction. 

The  spy,  well  used  to  his  business,  did  not  change  his  un- 
conscious attitude,  but  drained  his  little  glass  of  cognac,  took 
a  sip  of  fresh  water,  and  asked  for  another  glass  of  cognac. 
Madame  Defarge  poured  it  out  for  him,  took  to  her  knitting 
again,  and  hummed  a  little  song  over  it. 

You  seem  to  know  this  quarter  well  ;  that  is  to  say,  bet- 
ter than  I  do  ?  "  observed  Defarge. 

'  "  Not  at  all,  but  I  hope  to  know  it  better.    I  am  so  pro. 
foundly  interested  in  its  miserable  inhabitants." 
Hah  !  "  muttered  Defarge. 

"  The  pleasure  of  conversing  with  you,  Monsieur  Defarge, 
recalls  to  me,"  pursued  the  spy,  "  that  I  have  the  honor  of 
cherishing  some  interesting  associations  with  your  name." 
Indeed  !  "  said  Defarge,  with  much  indifference. 

"  Yes,  indeed.  When  Dr.  Manette  was  released,  you,  his 
old  domestic,  had  the  charge  of  him,  I  know.  He  was  de- 
livered to  you.  You  see  I  am  informed  of  the  circum- 
stances ? " 

"  Such  is  the  fact,  certainly,"  said  Defarge.  He  had  had 
it  conveyed  to  him,  in  an  accidental  touch  of  his  wife's  elbo\if 


STILL  KNITTING, 


as  she  knitted  and  warbled,  that  he  would  do  best  to  answei- 
but  always  with  brevity. 

"It  was  to  you/'  said  the  spy,  "that  his  daughter  came  ; 
and  it  was  from  your  care  that  his  daughter  took  him,  accom- 
panied by  a  neat  brown  monsieur  ;  how  is  he  called  ? — in  a 
little  wig — Lorry — of  the  bank  of  Tellson  and  Company — over 
to  England." 

"  Such  is  the  fact,"  repeated  Defarge. 

"  Very  interesting  remembrances  ! "  said  the  spy.  "  I  have 
known  Dr.  Manette  and  his  daughter,  in  England." 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Defarge. 

"You  don't  hear  much  about  them  now?  '^  said  the  spy. 
"  No,"  said  Defarge. 

"  In  effect,"  madame  struck  in,  looking  up  from  her  work 
and  her  little  song,  "  we  never  hear  about  them.  We  re- 
ceived the  news  of  their  safe  arrival,  and  perhaps  another 
letter,  or  perhaps  two  ;  but,  since  then,  they  have  gradually 
taken  their  road  in  life — we,  ours — and  we  have  held  no  cor- 
respondence." 

"  Perfectly  so,  madame,"  replied  the  spy.  "  She  is  going 
to  be  married." 

"  Going  ?  "  echoed  madame.  "  She  was  pretty  enough  to 
have  been  married  long  ago.  You  English  are  cold,  it  seems 
to  me." 

"  Oh  !    You  know  I  am  English." 

"  I  perceive  your  tongue  is,"  returned  madame ;  "  and 
what  the  tongue  is,  I  suppose  the  man  is." 

He  did  not  take  the  identification  as  a  compliment ;  but 
he  made  the  best  of  it,  and  turned  it  off  with  a  laugh.  After 
sipping  his  cognac  to  the  end,  he  added  : 

"Yes,  Miss  Manette  is  going  to  be  married.  But  not  to 
an  Englishman  ;  to  one  who,  like  herself,  is  French  by  birth. 
And  speaking  of  Gaspard  (ah,  poor  Gaspard  !  It  was  cruel, 
cruel !),  it  is  a  curious  thing  that  she  is  going  to  marry  the 
nephew  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  for  whom  Gaspard  was; 
exalted  to  that  height  of  so  many  feet ;  in  other  words,  the 
present  Marquis.  'I3ut  he  lives  unknown  in  England,  he  is  no 
Marquis  there  ;  he  is  Mr.  Charles  Darnay.  D'Aulnais  is  the 
name  of  his  mother's  family." 

Madame  Defarge  knitted  steadily,  but  the  intelligence  had 
a  palpable  effect  upon  her  husband.  Do  what  he  would,  be- 
hind the  little  counter,  as  to  the  striking  of  a  light  and  the 
lighting  of  his  pipe,  he  was  troubled,  and  his  hand  was  not 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


trustworthy.  The  spy  would  have  been  no  spy  if  he  had 
flailed  to  see  it,  or  to  record  it  in  his  mind. 

Having  made,  at  least,  this  one  hit,  whatever  it  might 
prove  to  be  worth,  and  no  customers  coming  in  to  help  him  to 
any  other,  Mr.  Barsad  paid  for  what  he  had  drunk,  and  took 
his  leave  ;  taking  occasion  to  say,  in  a  genteel  manner,  before 
he  departed,  that  he  looked  forward  to  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Defarge  again.  For  some  minutes 
after  he  had  emerged  into  the  outer  presence  of  Saint  Antoine, 
the  husband  and  wife  remained  exactly  as  he  had  left  them^ 
lest  he  should  come  back. 

"  Can  it  be  true,"  said  Defarge,  in  a  low  voice,  looking 
down  at  his  wife  as  he  stood  smoking  with  hi^  hand  on  the 
back  of  her  chair,  "  what  he  has  said  of  Ma'amselle 
Manette  ?  " 

•*  As  he  has  said  it,"  returned  madame,  lifting  her  eye- 
brows a  little,  "  it  is  probably  false.    But  it  may  be  true." 

"  If  it  is  "  Defarge  began,  and  stopped. 

^*  If  it  is  ? "  repeated  his  wife. 

" — And  if  it  does  come,  while  we  live  to  see  it  triumph — 1 
hope,  for  her  sake,  Destiny  will  keep  her  husband  out  of 
France." 

Her  husband's  destiny,"  said  Madame  Defarge,  with  her 
usual  composure,  will  take  him  where  he  is  to  go,  and  will 
lead  him  to  the  end  that  is  to  end  him.    That  is  all  I  know." 

''But  it  is  very  strange — now,  at  least,  is  it  not  veiy 
strange"- — said  Defarge,  rather  pleading  with  his  wife,  to  in- 
duce her  to  admit  it,  that,  after  all  our  sympathy  for  Mon- 
sieur her  father,  and  herself,  her  husband's  name  should  be 
proscribed  under  your  hand  at  this  moment,  by  the  side  of 
that  infernal  dog's  who  has  just  left  us  ? " 

"  Stranger  things  than  that  will  happen  when  it  does  come," 
answered  madame.  "  I  have  them  both  here,  of  a  certainty  ; 
and  they  are  both  here  for  their  merits;  that  is  enough." 

She  rolled  up  her  knitting  when  she  had  said  those  wordSp 
and  presently  took  the  rose  out  of  the  handkerchief  that  was 
wound  about  her  head.  Either  Saint  Antoine  had  an  instinct- 
ive sense  that  the  objectionable  decoration  was  gone,  or  Saint 
Antoine  was  on  the  watch  for  its  disappearance  ;  howbeit,  the 
Saint  took  courage  to  lounge  in,  very  shortly  afterwards,  and 
the  wine-shop  recovered  its  habitual  aspect. 

In  the  evening,  at  which  season  of  all  others  Saint 
Antoine  turned  himself  inside  out,  and  sat  on  doorsteps  and 


ONE  NIGHT. 


window  ledges,  and  came  to  the  corners  of  vile  streets  and 
courts,  for  a  breath  of  air,  Madame  Defarge  with  her  work  in 
her  hand  was  accustomed  to  pass  from  place  to  place  and 
from  group  to  group  :  a  Missionary — there  were  many  like 
her — such  as  the  world  will  do  well  never  to  breed  again.  All 
the  women  knitted.  They  knitted  worthless  things  ;  but  the 
mechanical  work  was  a  mechanical  substitute  for  eating  and 
drinking;  the  hands  moved  for  the  jaws  and  the  digestive  ap- 
paratus :  if  the  bony  fingers  had  been  still,  the  stomachs  would 
have  been  more  famine-pinched. 

But,  as  the  fingers  went,  the  eyes  went,  and  the  thoughts. 
And  as  Madame  Defarge  moved  on  from  group  to  group,  all 
three  went  quicker  and  fiercer  among  every  little  k2iot  of 
women  that  she  had  spoken  with,  and  left  behind.  . 

Her  husband  smoked  at  his  door,  looking  after  her  with 
admiration.  A  great  woman,"  said  he,  "  a  strong  woman,  2, 
grand  woman,  a  frightfully  grand  woman  !  " 

Darkness  closed  around,  and  then  came  the  ringing  of 
charch  bells  and  the  distant  beating  of  the  military  drums  in 
the  Palace  Court-Yard,  as  the  women  sat  knitting,  knitting. 
Darkness  encompassed  them.  Another  darkness  was  closing 
in  as  surely,  when  the  church  bells,  then  ringing  pleasantly  in 
many  an  airy  steeple  over  France,  should  be  melted  into  the 
thundering  cannon  ;  when  the  military  drums  should  be  beat- 
ing to  drown  a  wretched  voice,  that  night  all  potent  as  the  voice 
of  Power  and  Plenty,  Freedom  and  Life.  So  much  was  clos- 
ing in  about  the  women  who  sat  knitting,  knitting,  that  they 
their  very  selves  were  closing  in  around  a  structure  yet  unbuilt, 
where  they  were  to  sit  knitting,  knitting,  counting  dropping 
heads. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

ONE  NIGHT. 

Never  did  the  sun  go  down  with  a  brighter  glory  on  the 
quiet  corner  in  Soho,  than  one  memorable  evening  when  the 
Doctor  and  his  daughter  sat  under  the  plane-tree  together. 
Never  did  the  moon  rise  with  a  milder  radiance  over  greal 


176 


A  TALE  OF  TV/0  CITIES. 


London,  than  on  that  night  when  it  found  them  still  seated 
under  the  tree,  and  shone  upon  their  faces  through  its  leaves, 

Lucie  was  to  be  married  to-morrow.  She  had  reserv^ed 
this  last  evening  for  her  father,  and  they  sat  alone  under  the 
olanetree, 

"  You  are  happy,  my  dear  father  ? " 

"Quite,  my  child/* 

They  had  said  little,  though  they  had  been  there  a  long 

time.  When  it  was  yet  light  enough  to  work  and  read,  she 
had  neither  engaged  herself  in  her  usual  work,  nor  had  sha 
read  to  him.  She  had  employed  herself  in  both  ways  at  his 
side  under  the  tree,  many  and  many  a  time  ;  but  t|iis  time  was 
not  quite  like  any  other,  and  nothing  could  make  it  so. 

"  And  I  am  very  happy  to-night,  dear  father.  I  am  deeplj 
happy  in  the  love  that  Heaven  has  so  blessed — my  love  for 
Charles,  and  Charles's  love  for  me.  But,  if  my  life  were  not 
to  be  still  consecrated  to  you,  or  if  my  marriage  was  so  ar- 
ranged as  that  it  would  part  us,  even  by  the  length  of  a  few  0/ 
these  streets,  I  should  be  more  unhappy  and  self-reproacMul 
now  than  I  can  tell  yoUo    Even  as  it  is  

Even  as  it  was  she  could  not  command  her  voice.  • 

In  the  sad  moonlight,  she  clasped  him  by  the  neck,  and 
laid  her  face  upon  his  breast.  In  the  moonlight  which  is  always 
sad,  as  the  light  of  the  sun  itself  is — as  the  light  called  human 
life  is — at  its  coming  and  its  going. 

"  Dearest  dear !  Can  you  tell  me,  this  last  time,  that  you 
feel  quite,  quite  sure,  no  new  affections  of  mine,  and  no  new 
duties  of  mine,  will  ever  interpose  between  us  ?  /  know  it 
well,  but  do  you  know  it  1  In  your  own  heart,  do  you  feel 
quite  certain  ?  ^ 

Her  father  answered  with  a  cheerful  firmness  of  convic- 
tion he  could  scarcely  have  assumed,  Quite  sure,  my  darling  ! 
More  than  that,'*  he  added,  as  he  tenderly  kissed  her  ;  "  my 
future  is  far  brighter,  Luci;^,  seen  through  your  marriage^ 
than  it  could  have  been — nay,  than  it  ever  was — without  it.'' 

"  If  I  could  hope  that^  my  father  !  " 

"  Believe  it,  love  !  Indeed  it  is  so.  Consider  how  natural 
and  how  plain  it  is  my  dear,  that  it  should  be  so.  You,  de- 
voted and  young,  cannot  fully  appreciate  the  anxiety  I  have 
felt  that  your  life  should  not  be  wasted  " 

She  moved  her  hand  towards  his  lips,  but  he  took  it  in 
his,  and  repeated  the  word. 

— wasted,  my  child — should  not  be  v/asted,  struck  aside 


ONE  NIGHT. 


1/7 


from  the  natural  order  of  things — for  my  sake.  Your  unsel^ 
fishness  cannot  entirely  comprehend  how  much  my  mind  has 
gone  on  this  ;  but  only  ask  yourself,  how  could  my  happiness 
be  perfect,  while  yours  was  incomplete  ? 

"  If  I  had  never  seen  Charles,  my  father,  I  should  have 
been  quite  happy  with  you." 

He  smiled  at  her  unconscious  admission  that  she  would 
have  been  unhappy  without  Charles,  having  seen  him  ;  and 
replied : 

^'  My  child,  you  did  see  him,  and  it  is  Charles.  If  it  had 
not  been  Charles  it  would  have  been  another.  Or,  if  it  had 
been  no  other,  I  should  have  been  the  cause,  and  then  th^ 
dark  part  of  my  life  would  have  cast  its  shadow  beyond  my- 
self, and  would  have  fallen  on  you." 

It  was  the  first  time,  except  at  the  trial,  of  her  ever  hearing 
him  refer  to  the  period  of  his  suffering.  It  gave  her  a  strange 
and  new  sensation  while  his  words  were  in  her  ears  ;  and  she 
remembered  it  long  afterwards. 

"  See  ! said  the  Doctor  of  Beauvais,  raising  his  hand 
towards  the  moon.  I  have  looked  at  her  from  my  prison- 
window,  when  I  could  not  bear  her  light.  I  have  looked  at  her 
when  it  has  been  such  torture  to  me  to  think  of  her  shining 
upon  what  I  had  lost,  that  I  have  beaten  my  head  against  my 
prison-walls.  I.  have  looked  at  her,  in  a  state  so  dull  and 
lethargic,  that  I  have  thought  of  nothing  but  the  number  of 
horizontal  lines  I  could  draw  across  her  at  the  full,  and  the 
number  of  perpendicular  lines  with  which  I  could  intersect 
them."  He  added  in  his  inward  and  pondering  manner,  as  he 
looked  at  the  moon,  "  It  was  twenty  either  way,  I  remember, 
and  the  twentieth  was  difficult  to  squeeze  in." 

The  strange  thrill  wdth  which  she  heard  him  go  back  to 
that  time,  deepened  as  he  dwelt  upon  it ;  but,  there  was 
nothing  to  shock  her  in  the  manner  of  his  reference.  He 
only  seemed  to  contrast  his  present  cheerfulness  and  felicity 
with  the  dire  endurance  that  was  over. 

I  have  looked  at  her,  speculating  thousands  of  times 
upon  the  unborn  child  from  whom  I  had  been  rent.  Whether 
it  was  alive.  Whether  it  had  been  born  alive,  or  the  poor 
mother's  shock  had  killed  it.  Whether  it  was  a  son  who 
would  some  day  avenge  his  father.  (There  was  a  time  in 
my  imprisonment,  when  my  desire  for  vengeance  was  unbear- 
able.) Whether  it  was  a  son  who  would  never  know  his 
father's  story ;  who  might  evea  live  to  weigh  the  possibility 


178 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


of  his  father's  having  disappeared  of  his  own  will  and  act 
Whether  it  was  a  daughter  who  would  grow  to  be  a  woman." 

She  drew  closer  to  him,  and  kissed  his  cheek  and  his 
hand. 

^'  I  have  pictured  my  daughter,  to  myself,  as  perfectly  for 
getful  of  me — rather,  altogether  ignorant  of  me,  and  uncon^ 
scious  of  me.  I  have  cast  up  the  years  of  her  age,  year  aftei 
year.  I  have  seen  her  married  to  a  man  who  knew  nothing 
of  my  fate.  I  have  altogether  perished  from  the  remembrance 
of  the  living,  and  in  the  next  generation  my  place  was  a 
blank." 

^' My  father!  Even  to  hear  that  you  had  such  thoughts 
of  a  daughter  who  never  existed,  strikes  to  my  heart  as  if  I 
had  been  that  child." 

"  You,  Lucie  ?  It  is  out  of  the  consolation  and  restora- 
tion you  have  brought  to  me,  that  these  remembrances  arise, 
and  pass  between  us  and  the  moon  on  this  last  night. — What 
did  I  say  just  now  " 

"  She  knew  nothing  of  you.    She  cared  nothing  for  you." 

"  So !  But  on  other  moonlight  nights,  when  the  sadness 
and  the  silence  have  touched  me  in  a  different  way — have  af- 
fected me  with  something  as  like  a  sorrowful  sense  of  peace, 
as  any  emotion  that  had  pain  for  its  foundations  could — I 
have  imagined  her  as  coming  to  me  in  my  cell,  and  leading 
me  out  into  the  freedom  beyond  the  fortress.  I  have  seen 
her  image  in  the  moonlight  often,  as  I  now  see  you  ;  ex- 
cept that  I  never  held  her  in  my  arms  ;  it  stood  betv/een  the 
little  grated  window  and  the  door.  But,  you  understand  that 
that  was  not  the  child  I  am  speaking  of  ? " 

^^The  figure  was  not ;  the — the — image  ;  the  fancy  ?  " 

"  No.  That  was  another  thing.  It  stood  before  my  dis- 
turbed sense  of  sight,  but  it  never  moved.  The  phantom  that 
my  mind  pursued,  was  another  and  more  real  child.  Of  her 
outward  appearance  I  know  no  more  than  that  she  was  like 
her  mother.  The  other  had  that  likeness  too — as  you  have 
— but  was  not  the  same.  Can  you  follow  me,  Lucie  ?  Hardly, 
I  think  .  I  doubt  you  must  have  been  a  solitary  prisoner 
to  understand  these  perplexed  distinctions." 

His  collected  and  calm  manner  could  not  prevent  her 
blood  from  running  cold,  as  he  thus  tried  to  anatomize  his 
old  condition. 

"  In  that  more  peaceful  state,  I  have  imagined  her,  in  the 
moonlight,  coming  to  me  and  taking  me  out  to  show  me  that 


ONE  NIGH1\ 


179 


the  home  of  her  married  life  was  full  of  her  loving  remem- 
brance of  her  lost  father.  My  picture  was  in  hei  room,  and  I 
was  in  her  prayers.  Her  life  was  active,  cheerful,  useful ;  but 
my  poor  history  pervaded  it  all." 

I  was  that  child,  my  father,  I  was  not  half  so  good,  but 
in  my  love  that  was  I." 

"  And  she  showed  me  her  children,"  said  the  Doctor  of 
Beauvais,  "  and  they  had  heard  of  me,  and  had  been  taught 
to  pity  me.  When  they  passed  a  prison  of  the  State,  they 
kept  far  from  its  frowning  walls,  and  looked  up  at  its  bars, 
and  spoke  in  whispers.  She  could  never  deliver  me ;  I  im- 
agined that  she  always  brought  me  back  after  showing  me 
such  things.  But  then,  blessed  with  the  relief  of  tears,  I  fell 
upon  my  knees,  and  blessed  her." 

"  I  am  that  child,  1  hope,  my  father.  O  my  dear,  my 
dear,  will  you  bless  me  as  fervently  to-morrow  ? " 

Lucie,  I  recall  these  old  troubles  in  the  reason  that  I 
have  to-night  for  loving  you  better  than  words  can  tell,  and 
thanking  God  for  my  great  happiness.  My  thoughts,  when 
they  were  wildest,  never  rose  near  the  happiness  that  I  have 
known  with  you,  and  that  we  have  before  us." 

He  embraced  her,  solemnly  commended  her  to  Heaven, 
and  humbly  thanked  Heaven,  for  having  bestowed  her  on 
him.    By  and  by,  they  went  into  the  house. 

There  was  no  one  bidden  to  the  marriage  but  Mr.  Lorry ; 
there  was  even  to  be  no  bridesmaid  but  the  gaunt  Miss  Pross. 
The  marriage  was  to  make  no  change  in  their  place  of  resi- 
dence ;  they  had  been  able  to  extend  it,  by  taking  to  them- 
selves the  upper  rooms  formerly  belonging  to  the  apocryphal 
invisible  lodger,  and  they  desired  nothing  more. 

Doctor  Manette  was  very  cheerful  at  the  little  supper. 
They  were  only  three  at  table,  and  Miss  Pross  made  the  third. 
He  regretted  that  Charles  was  not  there  ;  was  more  than  half 
disposed  to  object  to  the  loving  little  plot  that  kept  him  away  ; 
and  drank  to  him  affectionately. 

So,  the  time  came  for  him  to  bid  Lucie  good-night,  and 
they  separated.  But,  in  the  stillness  of  the  third  hour  of  the 
mornmg,  Lucie  came  down  stairs  again,  and  stole  into  his 
room  ;  not  free  from  unshaped  fears,  beforehand. 

All  things,  however,  were  in  their  places  ;  all  was  quiet  ; 
and  he  lay  asleep,  his  white  hair  picturesque  on  the  untroub- 
led pillow,  and  his  hands  lying  quiet  on  the  coverlet.  She 
put  her  needless  candle  in  the  shadow  at  a  distance,  crept  up 


i8o 


/I  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


to  his  bed,  and  put  her  lips  to  his  3  then,  leaned  over  hha^ 
and  looked  at  him. 

Into  his  handsome  face  the  bitter  waters  of  captivity  had 
worn ;  but,  he  covered  up  their  tracks  with  a  determination 
so  strong,  that  he  held  the  mastery  of  them  even  in  his  sleep. 
A  more  remarkable  face  in  its  quiet,  resolute,  and  guarded 
struggle  with  an  unseen  assailant,  was  not  to  be  beheld  in  all 
the  wide  dominions  of  sleep,  that  night. 

She  timidly  laid  her  hand  on  his  dear  breast,  and  put  up 
a  prayer  that  she  might  ever  be  as  true  to  him  as  her  love  as- 
pired to  be,  and  as  his  sorrows  deserved.  Then,  she  with- 
drew her  hand,  and  kissed  his  lips  once  more,  and  went  away. 
So,  the  sunrise  came,  and  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  of  the 
plane-tree  moved  upon  his  face,  as  softly  as  her  lips  had 
moved  in  praying  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

NINE  DAYS. 

The  marriage-day  was  shining  brightly,  and  they  were 
ready  outside  the  closed  door  of  the  doctor's  room,  where  he 
was  speaking  with  Charles  Darnay.  They  were  ready  to  go 
to  church ;  the  beautiful  bride,  Mr.  Lorry,  and  Miss  Pross — • 
to  whom  the  event,  through  a  gradual  process  of  reconcile- 
ment to  the  inevitable,  would  have  been  one  of  absolute  bliss, 
but  for  the  yet  lingering  consideration  that  her  brother  Solo- 
mon  should  have  been  the  bridgeroom. 

"  And  so,''  said  Mr.  Lorry,  who  could  not  sufficiently  ad- 
mire the  bride,  and  who  had  been  moving  round  her  to  take 
in  every  point  of  her  quiet,  pretty  dress  ;  and  so  it  was  for 
this,  my  sweet  Lucie,  that  I  brought  you  across  the  Channel, 
such  a  baby  !  Lord  bless  me  !  How  little  I  thought  what  I 
was  doing!  How  lightly  I  valued  the  obligation  I  was  con- 
ferring on  my  friend  Mr.  Charles  !  " 

*'You  didn't  mean  it,"  remarked  the  matter-of-fact  Miss 
Pross,  "  and  therefore  how  could  you  know  it  ?    Nonsense  !  '* 

"  Really  ?  Well !  but  don't  cry,"  said  the  gentle  Mr 
Lorry. 


NINE  DA  YS, 


I  am  not  ctying,"  said  Miss  Pross ;  ''you  are." 
"  I,  my  Pross  ?  "    (By  this  time,  Mr.  Lorry  dar.'sd  to  be 
pleasant  with  her,  on  occasion.) 

You  were,  just  now ;  I  saw  you  do  it,  and  I  don't  wonder  at 
it.  Such  a  present  of  plate  as  you  have  made  'em,  is  enough  to 
bring  tears  into  anybody's  eyes.  There's  not  a  fork  or  a  spoon  in 
the  collection,''  said  Miss  Pross,  that  I  didn't  cry  over,  last 
night  after  the  box  came,  till  I  couldn't  see  it." 

I  am  highly  gratified,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  "  though,  upon 
my  honor,  I  had  no  intention  of  rendering  those  trifling  arti- 
cles of  remembrance  invisible  to  any  one.  Dear  me  !  This 
is  an  occasion  that  makes  a  man  speculate  on  all  he  has  lost. 
Dear,  dear,  dear !  To  think  that  there  might  have  been  a 
Mrs.  Lorry,  any  time  these  fifty  years  almost !  " 
"  Not  at  all  1 "    From  Miss  Pross. 

"  You  think  that  there  never  might  have  been  a  Mrs. 
Lorry  ?  "  asked  the  gentleman  of  that  name. 

"  Pooh  !  "  rejoined  Miss  Pross  ;  "  you  were  a  bachelor  in 
your  cradle." 

"  Well  ! "  observed  Mr.  Lorry,  beamingly  adjusting  his 
little  wig,    that  seems  probable,  too." 

'"  And  you  were  cut  out  for  a  bachelor,"  pursued  Miss 
Pross,  "before  you  were  put  in  your  cradle." 

"  Then,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  "  that  I  was  very  unhand- 
somely dealt  with,  and  that  I  ought  to  have  had  a  voice  in  the 
selection  of  my  pattern.  Enough  !  Now,  my  dear  Lucie," 
dravvdng  his  arm  soothingly  round  her  waist,  "  I  hear  them 
moving  in  the  next  room,  and  Miss  Pross  and  I,  as  two  formal 
folks  of  business,  are  anxious  not  to  lose  the  final  opportunity 
of  saying  something  to  you  that  you  wish  to  hear.  You  leave 
your  good  father,  my  dear,  in  hands  as  earnest  and  as  loving 
as  your  own ;  he  shall  be  taken  every  conceivable  care  of  \ 
during  the  next  fortnight,  while  you  are  in  Warwickshire  and 
thereabouts,  even  Tellson's  shall  go  to  the  wall  (comparatively 
speaking)  before  him.  And  when,  at  the  fortnight's  end,  he 
comes  to  join  you  and  your  beloved  husband,  on  your  other 
fortnight's  trip  in  Wales,  you  shall  say  that  we  have  sent  him 
to  you  in  the  best  health  and  in  the  happiest  frame.  Now,  I 
hear  Somebody's  step  coming  to  the  door.  Let  me  kiss  my 
dear  girl  with  an  old-fashioned  bachelor  blessing,  before  Some-  * 
body  comes  to  claim  his  own." 

For  a  moment  he  held  the  fair  face  from  him  to  look  at 
the  well-remembered  expression  on  the  forehead,  and  then 


iS^  A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

laid  the  bright  golden  hair  against  his  little  brown  wig,  with  ^ 
genuine  tenderness  and  delicacy  which,  if  such  things  be  old- 
fashioned,  were  as  old  as  Adam. 

The  door  of  the  Doctor's  room  opened,  and  he  came  out 
with  Charles  Darnay.  He  was  so  deadly  pale — which  had 
not  been  the  case  when  they  went  in  together — that  no  vestige 
of  color  was  to  be  seen  in  his  face.  But,  in  the  composure 
of  his  manner  he  was  unaltered,  except  that  to  the  shrewd 
glance  of  Mr.  Lorry  it  disclosed  some  shadowy  indication  that 
the  old  air  of  avoidance  and  dread  had  lately  passed  over  him, 
like  a  cold  wind. 

He  gave  his  arm  to  his  daughter,  and  took  her  down  stairs  to 
the  chariot  which  Mr.  Lorry  had  hired  in  honor  of  the  day.  The 
rest  followed  in  another  carriage,  and  soor..^  in  a  neighboring 
church,  where  no  strange  eyes  looked  on,  Charles  Darnay  and 
Lucie  Manette  were  happily  married. 

Besides  the  glancing  tears  that  shone  among  the  smiles 
of  the  little  group  when  it  was  done,  some  diamonds  very 
bright  and  sparkling,  glanced  on  the  bride's  hand,  which  were 
newly  released  from  the  dark  obscurity  of  one  of  Mr.  Lorry's 
pockets.  They  returned  home  to  breakfast,  and  all  went  well, 
and  in  due  course  the  golden  hair  that  had  mingled  with  the 
poor  shoemaker's  white  locks  in  the  Paris  garret,  were  mingled 
with  them  again  in  the  morning  sunlight,  on  the  threshold  of 
the  door  at  parting. 

It  was  a  hard  parting,  though  it  was  not  for  long.  But  her 
father  cheered  her,  and  said  at  last,  gently  disengaging  him- 
self from  her  enfolding  arms,  "  Take  her,  Charles  1  She  is 
j^ours !  " 

And  her  agitated  hand  waved  to  them  from  the  chaise 
window,  and  she  was  gone. 

The  corner  being  out  of  the  way  of  the  idle  and  curious, 
and  the  ^  preparations  having  been  very  simple  and  few,  the 
Doctor,  Mr.  Lorry,  and  Miss  Pross,  were  left  quite  alone.  It 
was  when  they  turned  into  the  welcome  shade  of  the  cool  old 
hall,  that  Mr.  Lorry  observed  a  great  change  to  have  come 
over  the  Doctor;  as  if  the  golden  arm  uplifted  there  had 
struck  him  a  poisoned  blow. 

He  had  naturally  repressed  much,  and  some  revulsion 
might  have  been  expected  in  him  when  the  occasion  for  repres- 
sion was  gone.  But,  it  was  the  old  scared  lost  look  that 
troubled  Mr.  Lorry ;  and  through  his  absent  manner  of  clasp- 
ing his  head  and  drearily  wandering  away  into  his  own  room 


NINE  DA  YS. 


i8j 


when  they  got  up  stairs,  Mr.  Lorry  was  reminded  of  Defarge 
the  wine-shop  keeper,  and  the  starUght  ride. 

"  I  think,''  he  whispered  to  Miss  Pross,  after  anxious  con- 
sideration, "  I  think  we  had  best  not  speak  to  him  just  now, 
or  at  all  disturb  him.  I  must  look  in  at  Tellson's  ;  so  I  will 
go  there  at  once  and  come  back  presently.  Then,  we  will 
take  him  a  ride  into  the  country,  and  dine  there,  and  all  will  be 
well.'' 

It  was  easier  for  Mr.  Lorry  to  look  in  at  Tellson's,  than 
to  look  out  of  Tellson's.  He  was  detained  two  hours.  When 
he  came  back,  he  ascended  the  old  staircase  alone,  having 
asked  no  question  of  the  servant ;  going  thus  into  the  Doctor's 
room,  he  was  stopped  by  a  low  sound  of  knocking. 

"  Good  God  !  "  he  said,  with  a  start.    ''What's  that  ?  " 

Miss  Pross,  with  a  terrified,  face  was  at  his  ear.  '*  O  me, 
O  me  !  All  is  lost !  "  cried  she,  wringing  her  hands.  ''  What 
is  to  be  told  to  Ladybird  }  He  doesn't  know  me,  and  is  mak- 
ing shoes !  " 

Mr.  Lorry  said  what  he  could  to  calm  her,  and  w^ent  him- 
self  into  the  Doctor's  room.  The  bench  was  turned  towards 
the  light,  as  it  had  been  when  he  had  seen  the  shoemaker  at 
his  work  before,  and  his  head  was  bent  down,  and  he  was 
very  busy. 

"  Doctor  Manette.    My  dear  friend.  Doctor  Manette  !  " 

The  Doctor  looked  at  him  for  a  moment — half  inquir- 
ingly, half  as  if  he  were  angry  at  being  spoken  to — and  bent 
over  his  work  again. 

He  had  laid  aside  his  coat  and  waistcoat ;  his  shirt  was 
open  at  the  throat,  as  it  used  to  be  when  he  did  that  work ; 
and  even  the  old  haggard,  faded  surface  of  face  had  come  back 
to  him.  He  worked  hard — impatiently — as  if  in  some  sense  of 
having  been  interrupted. 

Mr.  Lorry  glanced  at  the  work  in  his  hand  and  observed 
that  it  was  a  shoe  of  the  old  size  and  shape.  He  took  up 
another  that  was  lying  by  him,  and  asked  what  it  was  ? 

"A  young  lady's  walking,  shoe,"  he  muttered,  without  look 
ing  up.  "  It  ought  to  have  been  finished  long  ago.  Let  it 
be." 

"  But,  Doctor  Manette,    Look  at  me  !  " 

He  obeyed,  in  the  old  mechanically  submissive  manner, 
without  pausing  in  his  work. 

"  You  know  me,  my  dear  friend  ?  Think  again.  This  is 
not  your  proper  occupation.    Think,  dear  friend  1 


i84 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Nothing  would  induce  him  to  speak  more.  He  looked  np 
for  an  instant  at  a  time^  when  he  was  requested  to  do  so  ; 
but,  no  persuasion  would  extract  a  word  from  him.  He 
worked,  and  worked,  and  worked,  in  silence,  and  words  fell 
on  him  as  they  would  have  fallen  on  an  echoless  wall,  or  on 
the  air.  The  only  ray  of  hope  that  Mr.  Lorry  could  discover^ 
was,  that  he  sometimes  furtively  looked  up  without  being 
asked.  In  that,  there  seemed  a  faint  expression  of  curiosity 
or  perplexity — as  though  he  were  trying  to  reconcile  some 
doubts  in  his  mind. 

Two  things  at  once  impressed  themselves  on  Mr.  Lorry, 
as  important  above  all  others  ;  the  first,  that  this  must  be 
kept  secret  from  Lucie  ;  the  second  that  it  must  be  kept  secret 
from  all  w4io  knew  him.  In  conjunction  wdth  Miss  Pross,  he 
took  immediate  steps  towards  the  latter  precaution,  by  giving 
out  that  the  Doctor  was  not  well,  and  required  a  few  days  of 
complete  rest.  In  aid  of  the  kind  deception  to  be  practised 
on  his  daughter,  Miss  Pross  was  to  write,  describing  his  hav- 
ing been  called  away  professionally,  and  referring  to  an  im- 
aginary letter  of  two  or  three  hurried  lines  in  his  own  hand, 
represented  to  have  been  addressed  to  her  by  the  same  post. 

These  measures,  advisable  to  be  taken  in  any  case,  Mr. 
Lorry  took  in  the  hope  of  his  coming  to  himself.  If  that 
should  happen  soon,  he  kept  another  course  in  reserve  ;  which 
was,  to  have  a  certain  opinion  that  he  thought  the  best,  on  the 
Doctor's  case. 

In  the  hope  of  his  recovery,  and  of  resort  to  this  third 
course  being  thereby  rendered  practicable,  Mr.  Lorry  resolved 
to  watch  him  attentively,  with  as  little  appearance  as  possible 
of  doing  so.  He  therefore  made  arrangements  to  absent  him- 
self from  Tellson's  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and  took  hi^ 
post  by  the  window  in  the  same  room. 

He  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  it  was  worse  than 
useless  to  speak  to  him,  since,  on  being  pressed,  he  became 
worried.  He  abandoned  that  attempt  on  the  first  day,  and 
resolved  merely  to  keep  himself  always  before  him,  as  a  silent 
protest  against  the  delusion  into  which  he  had  fallen,  or  was 
falling.  He  remained,  therefore,  in  his  seat  near  the  window, 
reading  and  writing,  and  expressing  in  as  many  pleasant  and 
natural  ways  as  he  could  think  of,  that  it  was  a  free  place. 

Doctor  Manette  took  what  was  given  him  to  eat  and  drink, 
and  worked  on,  that  first  day,  until  it  was  too  dark  to  see— - 
worked  on,  half  an  hour  after  Mr.  Lorry  could  not  have  seen. 


NINE  DA  YS, 


for  his  life,  to  read  or  write.    When  he  put  his  tools  aside  as 
useless,  until  morning,  Mr.  Lorry  rose  and  said  to  him  : 
Will  you  go  out  ? 

He  looked  down  at  the  floor  on  either  side  of  him  in  the 
old  manner,  looked  up  in  the  old  manner,  and  repeated  in  the 
old  low  voice  : 

"Out?" 

Yes  j  for  a  walk  with  me.    Why  not  ?  " 

He  made  no  effort  to  say  why  hot,  and  said  not  a  word 
more.  But,  Mr.  Lorry  thought  he  saw,  as  he  leaned  forward 
on  his  bench  in  the  dusk,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and 
his  head  in  his  hands,  that  he  was  in  some  misty,  w^ay  asking 
himself,  *'Why  not?  "  The  sagacity  of  the  man  of  business 
perceived  an  advantage  here,  and  determined  to  hold  it. 

Miss  Pross  and  he  divided  the  night  into  two  watches,  and 
observed  him  at  intervals  from  the  adjoining  room.  He  paced 
up  and  down  for  a  long  time  before  he  lay  down  ;  but,  when  he 
did  finally  lay  himself  down,  he  fell  asleep.  In  the  morning, 
he  was  up  betimes,  and  went  straight  to  his  bench  and  to 
work. 

On  this  second  day,  Mr.  Lorry  saluted  him  cheerfully  by 
his  name,  and  spoke  to  him  on  topics  that  had  been  of  late 
familiar  to  them.  He  returned  no  reply,  but  it  was  evident 
that  he  heard  what  was  said,  and  that  he  thought  about  it, 
however  confusedly.  This  encouraged  Mr.  Lorry  to  have 
Miss  Pross  in  with  her  work,  several  times  daring  the  day  ;  at 
those  times,  they  quiedy  spoke  of  Lucie,  a  id  of  her  father 
then  present,  precisely  in  the  usual  mannei  and  as  if  there 
were  nothing  amiss.  This  was  done  witho  c  any  demonstra- 
tive accompaniment,  not  long  enough,  oi  often  enough  to 
harass  him  ;  and  it  lightened  IMr.  Lorr}^'s  friendly  heart  to 
believe  that  he  looked  up  oftener,  and  that  appeared  to  be 
stirred  by  some  perception  of  inconsistencie\  surrounding  him. 

When  it  fell  dark  again,  Mr.  Lorry  aske  1  him  as  before  - 

"Dear  Doctor,  will  you  go  out  ?  " 

As  before,  he  repeated,  "  Out  ? 

"  Yes  ;  for  a  walk  with  me.    Why  not  ? 

This  time,  Mr.  Lorry  feigned  to  go  ou%  when  he  could 
extract  no  answer  from  him,  and,  after  remai  ling  absent  for 
an  hour,  returned.  In  the  meanwhile,  the  Doc  ior  had  removed 
to  the  seat  in  the  window,  and  had  sat  thc;t/f  looking  down 
at  the  plane-tree  \  but,  on  Mr.  Lorry's  returu,  he  slipped  away 
to  his  bench. 


i86 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


The  time  went  very  slawly  on,  and  Mr.  Lorry^'s  hope 
darkened,  and  his  heart  grew  heavier  again,  and  grew  yet 
heavier  and  heavier  every  day.  The  third  day  came  and 
went,  the  fourth,  the  fifth.  Five  days,  six  days,  seven  days, 
eight  days,  nine  days. 

With  a  hope  ever  darkening,  and  with  a  heart  always 
growing  heavier  and  heavier,  Mr.  Lorry  passed  through  this 
anxious  time.  The  secret  was  well  kept,  and  Lucie  was  un- 
conscious and  happy  ;  but  he  could  not  fail  to  observe  that 
the  shoemaker,  whose  hand  had  been  a  little  out  at  first,  was 
dreadfully  skilful,  and  that  he  had  never  been  so  intent  on  his 
work,  and  that  his  hands  had  never  been  so  nimble  and 
expert,  as  in  the  dusk  of  the  ninth  evening. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

AN  OPINION. 

Worn  out  by  anxious  watching,  Mr.  Lorry  fell  asleep  at 
his  post.  On  the  tenth  morning  of  his  suspense,  he  was 
startled  by  the  shining  of  the  sun  into  the  room  where  a  heavy 
slumber  had  overtaken  him  when  it  was  dark  night. 

He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  roused  himself  ;  but  he  doubted, 
when  he  had  done  so,  whether  he  was  not  still  asleep.  For, 
going  to  the  door  of  the  Doctor's  room  and  looking  in,  he 
perceived  that  the  shoemaker's  bench  and  tools  were  put 
aside  again,  and  that  the  Doctor  himself  sat  reading  at  the 
window.  He  was  in  his  usual  morning  dress,  and  his  face 
(which  Mr.  Lorry  could  distinctly  see),  though  still  very  pale, 
was  calmly  studious  and  attentive. 

Even  when  he  had  satisfied  himself  that  he  was  awake, 
Mr.  Lorry  felt  giddily  uncertain  for  some  few  moments  whether 
the  late  shoemaking  might  not  be  a  disturbed  dream  of  his 
own;  for,  did  not  his  eyes  show  him  his  friend  before  him  in 
his  accustomed  clothing  and  aspect,  and  employed  as  usual; 
and  was  there  any  sign  within  their  range,  that  the  change  oi 
which  he  had  so  strong  an  impression  had  actually  hap 
pened  ? 

It  was  but  the  inquiry  of  his  first  confusion  and  astonish- 


AA'  OPINION. 


187 


ment,  the  answer  being  obvious.  If  the  impression  v/ere  not 
produced  by  a  real  corresponding  and  sufficient  cause,  how 
came  he,  Jarvis  Lorry,  there  ?  How  came  he  to  have  fallen 
asleep,  in  his  clothes,  on  the  sofa  in  Dr.  Manette's  consulting- 
room,  and  to  be  debating  these  points  outside  the  Doctor's 
bed-room  door  in  the  early  morning. 

Within  a  few  minutes.  Miss  Pross  stood  whispering  at  his 
side.  If  he  had  had  any  particle  of  doubt  left,  her  talk  would 
of  necessity  have  resolved  it ;  but  he  was  by  that  time  clear- 
headed, and  had  none.  He  advised  that  they  should  let  the 
time  go  by  until  the  regular  breakfast-hour,  and  should  then 
meet  the  Doctor  as  if  nothing  unusual  had  occurred.  If  he 
appeared  to  be  in  his  customary  state  of  mind,  Mr.  Lorry 
would  then  cautiously  proceed  to  seek  direction  and  guidance 
from  the  opinion  he  had  been,  in  his  anxiety,  so  anxious  to 
obtain. 

Miss  Pross,  submitting  herself  to  his  judgment,  the 
scheme  was  worked  out  with  care.  Having  abundance  of 
time  for  his  usual  methodical  toilette,  Mr.  Lorry  presented 
himself  at  the  breakfast-hour  in  his  usual  white  linen,  and 
with  his  usual  neat  leg.  The  Doctor  was  summoned  in  the 
usual  way,  and  came  to  breakfast. 

So  far  as  it  was  possible  to  comprehend  him  without  over- 
stepping those  delicate  and  gradual  approaches  which  Mr. 
Lorry  felt  to  be  the  only  safe  advance,  he  at  first  supposed 
that  his  daughter's  marriage  had  taken  place  yesterday.  An 
incidental  allusion,  purposely  thrown  out,  to  the  day  of  the 
week,  and  the  day  of  the  month,  set  him  thinking  and  count- 
ing^and  evidently  made  him  uneasy.  In  all  other  respects, 
however,  he  was  so  composedly  himself,  that  Mr.  Lorry  de- 
termined to  have  the  aid  he  sought.  And  that  aid  was  his 
own. 

Therefore,  when  the  breakfast  was  done  and  cleared  away, 
and  he  and  the  Doctor  were  left  together,  Mr.  Lorry  said, 
feelingly  : 

"My  dear  Manette,  I  am  anxious  to  have  your  opinion,  in 
confidence,  on  a  very  curious  case  in  which  I  am  deeply  in- 
terested ;  that  is  to  sa}^,  it  is  very  curious  to  me  ;  perhaps,  to 
your  better  information  it  may  be  less  so." 

Glancing  at  his  hands,  which  were  discolored  by  his  late 
work,  the  Doctor  looked  troubled,  and  listened  attentively. 
He  had  already  glanced  at  his  hands  more  than  once. 

Doctor  Manette,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  touching  him  affectioiv 


i88 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


ately  on  the  arm,  ^'  the  case  is  the  case  of  a  particularly  dear 
friend  of  mine.  Pray  give  your  mind  to  it,  and  advise  me 
well  for  his  sake — and  above  all,  for  his  daughter's — his 
daughter's,  my  dear  Manette." 

"  If  I  understand,"  said  the  Doctor,  in  a  subdued  tone, 
"  some  mental  shock  ?  " 

^'Yes  I" 

Be  explicit,"  said  the  Doctor.    ^'  Spare  no  detail." 
Mr.  Lorry  saw  that  they  understood  one  another,  and  pro- 
ceeded. 

"  My  dear  Manette,  it  is  the  case  of  an  old  and  a  pro- 
longed shock,  of  great  acuteness  and  severity  to  the  affec- 
tions, the  feelings,  the — the — as  you  express  it — the  mind. 
The  mind.  It  is  the  case  of  a  shock  under  which  the  sufferer 
was  borne  down,  one  cannot  say  for  how  long,  because  I  be- 
lieve he  cannot  calculate  the  time  himself,  and  there  are-^  no 
other  means  of  getting  at  it.  It  is  the  case  of  a  shock  from 
which  the  sufferer  recovered,  by  a  process  that  he  cannot 
trace  himself — as  I  once  heard  him  publicly  relate  in  a  strik- 
ing manner.  It  is  the  case  of  a  shock  from  which  he  has  re- 
covered, so  completely,  as  to  b^  a  highly  intelligent  man, 
capable  of  close  application  of  mind,  and  great  exertion  of 
body,  and  of  constantly  making  fresh  additions  to  his  stock 
of  knowledge,  which  was  already  very  large.  But,  unfortu- 
nately, there  has  been,"  he  paused  and  took  a  deep  breath — 
"  a  slight  relapse." 

The  Doctor,  in  a  low  voice,  asked,  "  Of  how  long  dura- 
tion?" 

"  Nine  days  and  nights."  ^ 
"  How  did  it  show  itself  ?    I  infer,"  glancing  at  his  hands 

again,  "in  the  resumption  of  some  old  pursuit  connected 

with  the  shock  ? " 

"  That  is  the  fact." 

"  Now,  did  you  ever  see  him,"  asked  the  Doctor,  dis- 
tinctly and  collectedly,  though  in  the  same  low  voice,  "en- 
gaged in  that  pursuit  originally  ?  " 

"  Once." 

"  And  when  the  relapse  fell  on  him,  was  he  in  most  re 
spects — or  in  all  respects — as  he  was  then  ?  " 
"  I  think  in  all  respects." 

"  You  spoke  of  his  daughter.  Does  his  daughter  know  of 
the  relapse  ? " 

"  No.    It  has  been  kept  from  her,  and  I  hope  will  always 


AN  OPINION. 


be  kept  from  her.  It  is  known  only  to  myself,  and  to  one 
other  who  may  be  trusted." 

The  Doctor  grasped  his  hand,  and  murmured,  "  That  wks 
very  kind.  That  was  very  thoughtful ! "  Mr.  Lorry  grasped  his 
hand  in  return,  and  neither  of  the  two  spoke  for  a  little  while. 

"  Now,  my  dear  Manette,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  at  length,  in 
liis  most  considerate  and  most  affectionate  way,  "  I  am  a 
mere  man  of  business,  and  unfit  to  cope  with  such  intricate 
and  difficult  matters.  I  do  not  possess  the  kind  of  informa^ 
tion  necessary ;  I  do  not  possess  the  kind  of  intelligence  ;  I 
want  guiding.  There  is  no  man  in  this  world  on  whom  I 
could  so  rely  for  right  guidance,  as  on  you.  Tell  me,  how 
does  this  relapse  come  about  ?  Is  there  danger  of  another? 
Could  a  repetition  of  it  be  prevented  How  should  a  repeti- 
tioii  of  it  be  treated  t  How  does  it  come  about  at  all  ?  What 
can  I  do  for  my  friend  ?  No  man  ever  can  have  been  more 
desirous  in  his  heart  to  serve  a  friend,  than  I  am  to  serve 
mine,  if  I  knew  how.  But  I  don't  know  how  to  originate,  in 
such  a  case.  It  your  sagacity,  knowledge,  and  experience, 
could  put  me  on  the  right  track,  I  might  be  able  to  do  so 
much ;  unenlightened  and  undirected,  I  can  do  so  little. 
Pray  discuss  it  with  me ;  pray  enable  me  to  see  it  a  little 
more  clearly,  and  teach  me  how  to  be  a  little  more  useful." 

Doctor  Manette  sat  meditating  after  these  earnest  words 
were  spoken,  and  Mr.  Lorry  did  not  press  him. 

"  I  think  it  probable,"  said  the  Doctor,  breaking  silence 
with  an  effort,  "  that  the  relapse  you  have  described,  my  dear 
friend,  was  not  quite  unforeseen  by  its  subject." 

Was  it  dreaded  by  him  ?  "  Mr.  Lorry  ventured  to  ask. 

"Very  much."    He  said  it  with  an  involuntary  shudder. 

"  You  have  no  idea  how  such  an  apprehension  weighs  on 
the  sufferer's  mind,  and  how  difficult — how  almost  impossible 
— it  is,  for  him  to  force  himself  to  utter  a  word  upon  the  topic 
that  oppresses  him." 

"  Would  he,"  asked  Mr.  Lorry,  "  be  sensibly  relieved  if 
he  could  prevail  upon  himself  to  impart  that  secret  brooding 
to  any  one,  when  it  is  on  him  ? " 

"  I  think  so.  But  it  is,  as  I  have  told  you,  next  to  impos 
sible.  .  I  even  believe  it — in  some  cases — to  be  quite  impossi  < 
ble." 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  gently  laying  his  hand  on  the 
Doctor's  arm  again,  after  a  short  silence  on  both  sides,  "to 
what  would  you  refer  this  attack? " 


190 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


I  believe,"  returned  Doctor  Manette,  that  there  had 
been  a  strong  and  extraordinary  revival  of  .the  train  of 
thought  and  remembrance  that  was  the  first  cause  of  the  mal- 
ady. Some  intense  associations  of  a  most  distressing  nature 
were  vividly  recalled,  I  think.  It  is  probable  that  there  had 
long  been  a  dread  lurking  in  his  mind,  that  those  associations 
would  be  recalled — say,  under  certain  circumstances — say,  on 
a  particular  occasion.  He  tried  to  prepare  himself  in  vain  ; 
perhaps  the  effort  to  prepare  himself  made  him  less  able  to 
bear  it." 

"  Would  he  remember  what  took  place  in  the  relapse  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Lorry,  with  natural  hesitation. 

The  Doctor  looked  desolately  round  the  room,  shook  his 
head,  and  answered,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Not  at  all." 

"  Now,  as  to  the  future,"  hinted  Mr.  Lorry. 

"  As  to  the  future,"  said  the  Doctor,  recovering  firmness, 
"  I  should  have  great  hope.  As  it  pleased  Heaven  in  its 
mercy  to  restore  him  so  soon,  I  should  have  great  hope.  He,  . 
yielding  under  the  pressure  of  a  complicated  something,  long 
dreaded  and  long  vaguely  foreseen  and  contended  against, 
and  recovering  after  the  cloud  had  burst  and  passed,  I  should 
hope  that  the  worst  was  over." 

"  Well,  well !  That's  good  comfort,  I  am  thankful ! " 
said  Mr.  Lorry. 

"  I  am  thankful !  "  repeated  the  Doctor,  bending  his  head 
with  reverence. 

"  There  are  two  other  points,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  "on  which 
I  am  anxious  to  be  instructed.    I  may  go  on  1  " 

"  You  cannot  do  your  friend  a  better  service."  The 
Doctor  gave  him  his  hand. 

"  To  the  first,  then.  He  is  of  a  studious  habit,  and  un- 
usually energetic  ;  he  applies  himself  with  great  ardor  to  the 
acquisition  of  professional  knowledge,  to  the  conducting  of 
experiments,  to  many  things.     Now,  does  he  do  too  much  ?" 

"  I  think  not.  It  may  be  the  character  of- his  mind,  to  be 
always  in  singular  need  of  occupation.  That  may  be,  in  part, 
natural  to  it ;  in  part,  the  result  of  affliction.  The  less  it  was 
occupied  with  healthy  things,  the  more  it  would  be  in  danger 
of  turning  in  the  unhealthy  direction.  He  may  have  observed 
himself,  and  made  the  discovery." 

"  You  are  sure  that  he  is  not  under  too  great  a  strain  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  am  quite  sure  of  it." 

^*  My  dear  Manette,  if  he  were  overworked  now—-" 


AN  OPINION. 


^*  My  dear  Lorry,  I  doubt  if  that  could  easily  be.  There 
has  been  a  violent  stress  in  one  direction,  and  it  needs  a 
counterweight." 

"  Excuse  me,  as  a  persistent  man  of  business.  Assuming 
for  a  moment,  that  he  overworked ;  it  would  show  itself 
in  some  renewal  of  this  disorder  .'^ 

"  I  do  not  think  so.  I  do  not  think,"  said  Doctor  Manette 
with  the  firmness  of  self-conviction,  "  that  anything  but  the 
one  train  of  association  would  renew  it.  I  think  that,  hence- 
forth, nothing  but  some  extraordinary  jarring  of  that  chord 
could  renew  it.  After  what  has  happened,  and  after  his  re- 
covery, I  find  it  difficult  to  imagine  any  such  violent  sounding 
of  that  string  again.  I  trust,  and  I  almost  believe,  that  the 
circumstances  likely  to  renew  it  are  exhausted," 

He  spoke  with  the  diffidence  of  a  man  who  knew  how 
slight  a  thing  would  overset  the  delicate  organization  of  the 
mind,  and  yet  with  the  confidence  of  a  man  who  had  slowly 
won  his  assurance  out  of  personal  endurance  and  distress.  It 
was  not  for  his  friend  to  abate  that  confidence.  He  professed 
himself  more  relieved  and  encouraged  than  he  really  was,  and 
approached  his  second  and  last  point.  He  felt  it  to  be  the 
most  difficult  of  all ;  but,  remembering  his  old  Sunday  morn- 
ing conversation  with  Miss  Pross,  and  remembering  what  he 
had  seen  in  the  last  nine  days,  he  knew  that  he  must  face  it. 

"  The  occupation  resumed  under  the  influence  of  this 
passing  affliction  so  happily  recovered  from,"  said  Mr.  Lorry, 
clearing  his  throat,  "  we  will  call — Blacksmith's  work,  Black- 
smith's work.  We  will  say,  to  put  a  case  and  for  the  sake  of 
illustration,  that  he  had  been  used,  in  his  bad  tim.e,  to  work 
at  a  little  forge.  We  will  say  that  he  was  unexpectedly  found 
at  his  forge  again.  -  Is  it  not  a  pity  that  he  should  keep  it  by 
him  ? " 

The  Doctor  shaded  his  forehead  with  his  hand,  and  beat 
lus  foot  nervously  on  the  ground. 

He  has  always  kept  it  by  him,"  said  Mr.  Lorr}^,  with 
nnxious  look  at  his  friend.    "  Now,  would  it  not  be  better  thai 
he  should  let  it  go  ?  " 

Still,  the  Doctor,  with  shaded  forehead,  beat  his  foot 
nervously  on  the  ground. 

"  You  do  not  find  it  easy  to  advise  me  ? "  said  Mr.  Lorry. 
*  I  quite  understand  it  to  be  a  nice  question.    And  yet  I 

think  "  and  there  he  shook  his  head,  and  stopped. 

You  see,"  said  Doctor  Manette,  turning  to  him  after  an 


1^2 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


uneasy  pause,  "  it  is  very  hard  to  explain,  consistently,  the  in* 
nermost  workings  of  this  poor  man's  mind.  He  once  yearned 
so  frightfully  for  that  occupation,  and  it  was  so  welcome  when 
it  came ;  no  doubt  it  relieved  his  pain  so  much,  by  sub- 
stituting the  perplexity  of  the  fingers  for  the  perplexity  of  the 
brain,  and  by  substituting,  as  he  became  more  practiced,  the 
ingenuity  of  the  hands,  for  the  ingenuity  of  the  mental  torture  %  * 
that  he  has  never  been  able  to  bear  the  thought  of  putting  it 
quite  out  of  his  reach.  Even  now,  when  I  believe  he  is  more 
hopeful  of  himself  than  he  has  ever  been,  and  even  speaks  of 
himself  with  a  kind  of  confidence,  the  idea  that  he  might  need 
that  old  employment,  and  not  find  it,  gives  him  a  sudden 
sense  of  terror,  like  that  which  one  may  fancy  strikes  to  the 
heart  of  a  lost  child." 

He  looked  like  his  illustration,  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to 
Mr.  Lorry's  face. 

"  But  may  not — mind  !  I  ask  for  information,  as  a  plodding 
man  of  business  who  only  deals  with  such  material  objects  as 
guineas,  shillings  and  bank-notes — may  not  the  retention  of 
the  thing  involve  the  retention  of  the  idea  ?  If  the  thing  were 
gone,  my  dear  Manette,  might  not  the  fear  go  with  it  ?  In 
short,  is  it  not  a  concession  to  the  misgiving,  to  keep  the 
forge  ?  " 

There  was  another  silence. 

"  You  see,  too,''  said  the  Doctor,  tremulously,  "  it  is  such 
an  old  companion." 

"  I  would  not  keep  it,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  shaking  his  head ; 
for  he  gained  in  firmness  as  he  saw  the  Doctor  disquieted. 
"  I  would  recommend  him  to  sacrifice  it.  I  only  want  your 
authority.  I  am  sure  it  does  no  good.  Come !  Give  me 
your  authority,  like  a  dear  good  man.  For  his  daughter's 
sake,  my  dear  Manette  !  " 

Very  strange  to  see  what  a  struggle  there  was  within  him ! 
In  her  name,  then,  let  it  be  done ;  I  sanction  it.  But,  I 
would  not  take  it  away  while  he  was  present.  Let  it  be 
removed  v/hen  he  is  not  there  3  let  him  miss  his  old  com- 
panion after  an  absence." 

Mr.  Lorry  readily  engaged  for  that,  and  the  conference 
was  ended.  They  passed  the  day  in  the  country,  and  the 
Doctor  was  quite  restored.  On  the  three  following  days  he 
remained  perfectly  well,  and  on  the  fourteenth  day  he  went 
away  to  join  Lucie  and  her  husband.  The  precaution  that 
had  been  taken  to  account  for  his  silence,  Mr.  Lorry  had  pre- 


A  PLEA. 


viously  explained  to  him,  and  he  had  written  to  Lucie  in 
accordance  with  it,  and  she  had  no  suspicions. 

On  the  night  of  the  day  on  which  he  left  the  house,  Mr. 
Lorry  went  into  his  room  with  a  chopper,  saw,  chisel,  and 
hammer,  attended  by  T.Iiss  Pross  carrying  a  light.  There, 
wdth  closed  doors,  and  in  a  mysterious  and  guilty  manner,  Mr^ 
Lorry  hacked  the  shoemaker's  bench  to  pieces,  while  Miss 
Pross  held  the  candle  as  if  she  were  assisting  at  a  murder — 
fpr  which,  indeed,  in  her  grimness,  she  was  no  unsuitable 
figure.  The  burning  of  the  body  (previously  reduced  to 
pieces  convenient  for  the  purpose)  was  commenced  without 
delay  in  the  kitchen  lire  ;  and  the  tools,  shoes,  and  leather, 
were  buried  in  the  garden.  So  wicked  do  destruction  and 
secrecy  appear  to  honest  mmds,  that  Mr.  Lorry  and  Miss 
Pross,  while  engaged  m  tlie  commission  of  their  deed  and  in 
the  removal  of  its  traces,  almost  I'elt,  ancJ  almost  looked,  like 
accomplices  in  a  horrible  crime. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A  PLEA. 

When  the  newly-married  pair  came  home,  the  Srst  person 
iff^»  appeared,  to  offer  his  congratulations,  was  Sydney  Car- 
ton. They  had  not  been  at  home  many  hours,  when  he  pre- 
sented himself.  Ke  was  not  improved  in  habits,  or  in  looks, 
or  in  manner ;  but  there  was  a  certain  rugged  air  of  fidelity 
about  him,  which  was  new  to  the  observation  of  Charles 
Darnay. 

He  watched  his  opportunity  of  taking  Darnay  aside  into  a 
window,  and  of  speaking  to  him  when  no  one  overheard. 

"Mr.  Darnay,"  said  Carton,  "I  wish  we  might  b€ 
friends." 

"  We  are  already  friends,  I  hope." 

"  You  are  good  enough  to  say  so,  as  a  fashion  of  soeech  , 
but,  I  don't  mean  any  fashion  of  speech.  Indeed,  when  I  say 
I  wish  we  might  be  friends,  I  scarcely  mean  quite  that, 
either." 

Charles  Darnay — as  was  natural — asked  him,  in  ^il  good 
humor,  and  good-fellowship,  what  he  did  mean  ? 


XP4  A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 

^'  Upon  my  life,"  said  Carton,  smiling,  I  find  that  easiei 
to  comprehend  in  my  own  mind,  than  to  convey  to  yours. 
Huwever,  let  me  try.  You  remember  a  certain  famous  occa- 
sion when  I  was  more  drunk  than — than  usual  ?  " 

I  remember  a  certain  famous  occasion  when  you  forced 
me  to  confess  that  you  had  been  drinking." 

"  I  remember  it  too.  The  curse  of  those  occasions  is 
heavy  upon  me,  for  I  always  remember  them.  I  hope  it  may 
be  taken  into  account  one  day,  when  all  days  are  at  an  end 
for  me  !    Don't  be  alarmed  ;  I  am  not  going  to  preach." 

"  I  am  not  at  all  alarmed.  Earnestness  in  you,  is  anything 
but  alarming  to  me." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Carton,  with  a  careless  wave  of  his  hand,  as 
if  he  waved  that  away.  "  On  the  drunken  occasion  in  question 
(one  of  a  large  number,  as  you  know),  I  was  insufferable 
about  liking  you,  and  not  liking  you.  I  wish  you  would  for- 
get it." 

"  I  forgot  it  long  ago." 

"  Fashion  of  speech  again  !  But,  Mr.  Darnay,  oblivion  is 
not  so  easy  to  me,  as  you  represent  it  to  be  to  you.  I  have 
by  no  means  forgotten  it,  and  a  light  answer  does  not  help 
me  to  forget  it." 

"  If  it  was  a  light  answer,"  returned  Darnay,  "  I  beg 
your  forgiveness  for  it.  I  had  had  no  other  object  than  to 
turn  a  slight  thing,  which,  to  my  surprise,  seems  to  trouble 
you  too  much,  aside.  I  declare  to  you,  on  the  faith  of  a  gen- 
tleman, that  I  have  long  dismissed  it  from  my  mind.  Good 
Heaven,  what  was  there  to  dismiss !  Have  I  had  nothing 
-more  important  to  remember,  in  thegreat  service  you  rendered 
me  that  day  ?  " 

"  As  to  the  great  service,"  said  Carton,  "  I  am  bound  to 
avow  to  you,  when  you  spaak  of  it  in  that  way,  that  it  was 
mere  professional  claptrap.  I  don't  know  that  I  cared  what 
became  of  you,  when  I  rendered  it. — Mind  !  I  say  when  I  ren- 
j'^^red  it ;  I  am  speaking  of  the  past." 

'^You  make  light  of  the  obligation,"  returned  Darnay  , 
^*butl  will  not  quarrel  v^\\h.  your  light  answer." 

"  Genuine  truth,  Mr.  Darnay,  trust  me !  I  have  gone 
aside  from  my  purpose ;  I  was  speaking  about  our  being 
friends.  Now,  you  know  me  ;  you  know  I  am  incapable  of 
all  the  higher  and  better  flights  of  men.  If  you  doubt  it,  ask 
Stryver,  and  he'll  tell  you  so." 

.1  prefer  to  form  my  own  opinion,  without  the  aid  of  his.*' 


A  PLEA. 


Well  !  At  any  rate  you  know  me  as  a  dissolute  dog,  who 
has  never  done  any  good,  and  never  will." 

"  I  don't  know  that  you  *  never  will.'  " 

"  But  I  do,  and  you  must  take  my  word  for  it.  Well  1  If 
you  could  endure  to  have  such  a  worthless  fellow,  and  a  fellow 
of  such  indifferent  reputation,  coming  and  going  at  odd  times, 
I  should  ask  that  I  might  be  permitted,  to  come  and  go  as  a 
privileged  person  here ;  that  I  might  be  regarded  as  an  use- 
less (and  I  would  add,  if  it  were  not  for  the  resemblance  I 
detected  between  you  and  me),  an  unornamental,  piece  of 
furniture,  tolerated  for  its  old  service,  and  taken  no  notice  of. 
I  doubt  if  I  should  abuse  the  permission.  It  is  a  bundled  to 
one  if  I  should  avail  myself  of  it  four  times  in  a  year.  It 
would  satisfy  me,  I  dare  say,  to  know  that  I  had  it." 

"Will  you  try.?" 

"  That  is  another  way  of  saying  that  I  am  placed  on  the 
footing  I  have  indicated.  I  thank  you,  Darnay.  I  may  use 
that  freedom  with  your  name  t  " 

"  I  think  so.  Carton,  by  this  time." 

They  shook  hands  upon  it,  and  Sydney  turned  away. 
Within  a  minute  afterwards,  he  was,  to  all  outward  appear- 
ance, as  unsubstantial  as  ever. 

When  he  was  gone,  and  in  the  course  of  an  evening  passed 
with  Miss  Pross,  the  Doctor,  and  Mr.  Lorry,  Charles  Darnay 
made  some  mention  of  this  conversation  in  general  terms,  and 
spoke  of  Sydney  Carton  as  a  problem  of  carelessness  and 
recklessness.  He  spoke  of  him,  in  short,  not  bitterly  or 
meaning  to  bear  hard  upon  him,  but  as  anybody  might  who 
saw  him  as  he  showed  himself. 

He  had  no  idea  that  this  could  dwell  in  the  thoughts  of 
his  fair  young  wife ;  but,  when  he  afterwards  joined  her  in 
their  own  rooms,  he  found  her  waiting  for  him  with  the  old 
pretty  lifting  of  the  forehead  strongly  marked. 

"  We  are  thoughtful  to-night !  "  said  Darnay,  drawing  his 
arm  about  her. 

"  Yes,  dearest  Charles,"  with  her  hands  on  his  breast,  and 
the  inquiring  and  attentive  expression  fixed  upon  him  ;  we 
are  rather  thoughtful  to-night,  for  we  have  something  on  our 
mind  to-night." 

"  What  is  it,  my  Lucie  ?  " 

"  Will  you  promise  not  to  press  one  question  on  me,  if  I 
beg  you  not  to  ask  it  ?  " 

"  Will  I  promise  ?    What  will  I  not  promise  to  my  Love  ?  " 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CT'T/ES. 


What,  indeed,  with  liis  hand  putting  aside  the  golden  hail 
from  the  cheek,  and  his  other  hand  against  the  heart  thai 
beat  for  him  ! 

"  I  think,  Charles,  pocr  Mr.  Carton  deserves  more  con- 
sideration and  respect  than  you  expressed  for  him  to-night." 
Indeed,  my  own  ?    Why  so  ?  " 

"That  is  what  you  are  not  to  ask  me  ?  But  I  think — 1 
know — he  does." 

"  If  you  know  it,  it  is  enough.  What  would  you  have  me 
do,  my  Life  ?  " 

"  I  would  ask  you  dearest,  to  be  very  generous  with  him 
always,  and  very  lenient  on  his  faults  when  he  is  not  by.  I 
Would  ask  you  to  believe  that  he  has  a  heart  he  very,  very 
seldom  reveals,  and  that  there  are  deep  wounds  in  it.  My 
dear,  I  have  seen  it  bleeding." 

"  It  is  a  painful  reflection  to  me,"  said  Charles  Darnay, 
quite  astounded,  "  that  I  should  have  done  him  any  wrong.  I 
never  thought  this  of  him." 

"  My  husband,  it  is  so.  I  fear  he  is  not  to  be  reclaimed ; 
there  is  scarcely  a  hope  that  anything  in  his  character  or  for- 
tunes is  reparable  now.  But,  I  am  sure  that  he  is  capable  of 
good  things,  gentle  things,  even  magnanimous  things." 

She  looked  so  beautiful  in  the  purity  of  her  faith  in  this 
lost  man,  that  her  husband  could  have  looked  at  her  as  she 
was  for  hours. 

"  And,  O  my  dearest  love  !  "  she  urged,  clinging  nearer  to 
him,  laying  her  head  upon  his  breast,  and  raising  her  eyes  to 
his,  "  remember  how  strong  we  are  in  our  happiness,  and  how 
weak  he  is  in  his  misery  ! " 

The  supplication  touched  him  home.  "  I  will  always  re- 
member it,  dear  heart !  I  will  remember  it  as  long  as  I 
live." 

He  bent  over  the  golden  head,  and  put  the  rosy  lips  to 
his,  and  folded  her  in  his  arms.  If  one  forlorn  wanderer  then 
pacing  the  dark  streets,  could  have  heard  her  innocent  dis- 
closure, and  could  have  seen  tne  drops  of  pity  kissed  away  by 
her  husband  from  the  soft  blue  eyes  so  loving  of  that  hus- 
band, he  might  have  cried  to  the  night — and  the  words  would 
not  have  parted  from  his  lips  for  the  first  time — 
i      "  God  bless  her  for  her  sweet  compassion  1 


ECHOING  FOOTSTEPS. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

ECHOING  FOOTSTEPS, 

A  WONDERFUL  corner  for  echoes,  it  has  been  iemarked^ 
tliat  corner  where  the  Doctor  Uved.  Ever  busily  winding  the 
golden  thread  which  bound  her  husband,  and  her  father,  and 
herself,  and  her  old  directress  and  companion,  in  a  life  of 
quiet  bliss,  Lucie  sat  in  the  still  house  in  the  tranquilly  re- 
sounding corner,  listening  to  the  echoing  footsteps  of  years. 

At  first,  there  w^ere  times,  though  she  was  a  perfectly 
happy  young  wife,  when  her  work  would  slowly  fall  from  her 
hands,  and  her  eyes  would  be  dimmed.  For,  there  was 
something  coming  in  the  echoes,  something  light,  afar  off, 
and  scarcely  audible  yet,  that  stirred  her  heart  too  much. 
Fluttering  hopes  and  doubts — hopes,  of  a  love  as  yet  unknown 
to  her :  doubts,  of  her  remaining  upon  earth,  to  enjoy  that 
new  delight — divided  her  breast.  Among  the  echoes  then, 
there  would  arise  the  sound  of  footsteps  at  her  own  early 
grave ;  and  thoughts  of  the  husband  who  would  be  left  so 
desolate,  and  who  would  mourn  for  her  so  much,  swelled  to 
her  eyes,  and  broke  like  waves. 

That  time  passed,  and  her  little  Lucie  lay  on  her  bosom. 
Then,  among  the  advancing  echoes,  there  was  the  tread  of 
her  tiny  feet  and  the  sound  of  her  prattling  words„  Let 
greater  echoes  resound  as  they  would,  the  young  mother  at 
the  cradle  side  could  always  hear  those  coming.  They  came, 
and  the  shady  house  was  sunny  with  a  child's  laugh^  and  the 
Divine  friend  of  children,  to  whom  in  her  trouble  she  had 
confided  hers,  seemed  to  take  her  child  in  his  arms,  as  He 
took  the  child  of  old,  and  made  it  a  sacred  joy  to  her. 

Ever  busily  winding  the  golden  thread  that  bound  them 
aii  together,  weaving  the  service  of  her  happy  influence 
through  the  tissue  of  all  their  lives,  and  making  it  predomi- 
fiate  nowhere,  Lucie  heard  in  the  echoes  of  years  none  but 
friendly  and  soothing  sounds.  Her  husband's  step  was  strong 
and  prosperous  among  them  ;  her  father's  firm  and  equal. 
Lo,  Miss  Pross,  in  harness  of  string,  awakening  the  echoes^ 
as  an  unruly  charger,  whip-corrected,  snorting  and  pawing  the 
tarth  under  the  plane-tree  in  the  garden  ! 

Even  when  there  were  sounds  of  sorrow  among  the  rest. 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


they  were  not  harsh  nor  cruel.  Even  when  golden  hair,  like 
her  own,  lay  in  a  halo  on  a  pillow  round  the  worn  face  of  a 
little  boy,  and  he  said,  with  a  radiant  smile,  Dear  papa  and 
mamma,  I  am  very  sorry  to  leave  you  both,  and  to  leave  my 
pretty  sister ;  but  I  am  called,  and  I  must  go  ! "  those  were 
not  tears  all  of  agony  that  wetted  his  young  mother's  cheeky 
as  the  spirit  departed  from  her  embrace  that  had  been  en 
trusted  to  it.  Suffer  them  and  forbid  them  not.  They  see 
my  Father's  face.    O  Father,  blessed  words  ! 

Thus,  the  rustling  of  an  Angel's  wings  got  blended  with 
the  other  echoes,  and  they  were  not  wholly  of  earth,  but  had 
in  them  that  breath  of  Heaven.  Sighs  of  the  winds  that  blew 
over  a  little  garden-tomb  were  mingled  with  them  also,  and 
both  were  audible  to  Lucie,  in  a  hushed  murmur — like  the 
breathing  of  a  summer  sea  asleep  upon  a  sandy  shore — as  the 
little  Lucie,  comically  studious  at  the  task  of  the  morning,  or 
dressing  a  doll  at  her  mother's  footstool,  chattered  in  the 
tongues  of  the  Two  Cities  that  were  blended  in  her  life. 

The  echoes  rarely  answered  to  the  actual  tread  of  Sydney 
Carton.  Some  half-dozen  times  a  j^ear,  at  most,  he  claimed 
his  privilege  of  coming  in  uninvited,  and  would  sit  among 
them  through  the  evening,  as  he  had  once  done  often.  He 
never  came  there  heated  with  wine.  And  one  other  thing  re- 
garding him  was  whispered  in  the  echoes,  which  has  been 
whispered  by  all  true  echoes  for  ages  and  ages. 

No  man  ever  really  loved  a  woman,  lost  her,  and  knew  her 
with  a  blameless  though  an  unchanging  mind,  when  she  was 
a  wife  and  a  mother,  but  her  children  had  a  strange  sympathy 
with  him — an  instinctive  delicacy  of  pity  for  him.  What  fine 
hidden  sensibilities  are  touched  in  such  a  case,  no  echoes  tell ; 
but  it  is  so,  and  it  was  so  here.  Carton  was  the  first  stranger 
to  whom  little  Lucie  held  out  her  chubby  arms,  and  he  kept 
his  place  with  her  as  she  grew.  The  little  boy  had  spoken  of 
him,  almost  at  the  last.  "  Poor  Carton  !  Kiss  him  for 
me  !  " 

Mr.  Stryver  shouldered  his  way  through  the  law,  like  some 
great  engine  forcing  itself  through  turbid  water,  and  dragged 
his  useful  friend  in  his  wake,  like  a  boat  towed  astern.  As 
the  boat  so  favored  is  usually  in  a  rough  plight,  and  mostly 
under  water,  so,  Sydney  had  a  swamped  life  of  it.  But,  easy 
and  strong  custom,  unhappily  so  much  easier  and  stronger  in 
him  than  any  stimulating  sense  of  desert  or  disgrace,  made  it 
the  life  he  was  to  lead ;  and  he  no  more  thought  of  emerging 


ECHOING  FOOTSTEPS. 


199 


from  his  state  of  lion's  jackal,  than  any  real  jackal  may  be 
supposed  to  think  of  rising  to  be  a  lion.  Stryver  was  rich  ; 
had  married  a  florid  widow  with  property  and  three  boys,  who 
had  nothing  particularly  shining  about  them  but  the  straight 
hair  of  their  dumpling  heads. 

These  three  young  gentlemen,  Mr.  Stryver,  exuding  patron* 
age  of  the  most  offensive  quality  from  every  pore,  had  walked 
before  him  like  three  sheep  to  the  quiet  corner  in  Soho,  and 
had  offered  as  pupils  to  Lucie's  husband :  delicately  saying, 
"  Halloa !  here  are  three  lumps  of  bread-and-cheese  towards 
your  matrimonial  picnic,  Darnay  ! The  polite  rejection  of 
the  three  lumps  of  bread-and-cheese  had  quite  bloated  Mr. 
Stryver  with  indignation,  which  he  afterwards  turned  to  ac- 
count in  the  training  of  the  young  gentlemen,  by  directing 
them  to  beware  of  the  pride  of  Beggars,  like  that  tutor-fellow. 
He  was  also  in  the  habit  of  declaiming  to  Mrs.  Stryver,  over 
his  full-bodied  wine,  on  the  arts  Mrs.  Darnay  had  once  put  in 
practice  to  catch ''  him,  and  on  the  diamond-cut-diamond 
arts  in  himself,  madam,  which  had  rendered  him  "  not  to  be 
caught."  Some  of  his  King's  Bench  familiars,  who  were  oc- 
casionally parties  to  the  full-bodied  wine  and  the  lie,  excused 
him  for  the  latter  by  saying  that  he  had  told  it  so  often,  that 
he  believed  it  himself — which  is  surely  such  an  incorrigible 
aggravation  of  an  originally  bad  offence,  as  to  justify  any  such 
offender's  being  carried  off  to  some  suitably  retired  spot,  and 
there  hanged  out  of  the  way. 

These  were  among  the  echoes  to  which  Lucie,  sometimes 
pensive,  sometimes  amused  and  laughing,  listened  in  the 
echoing  corner,  until  her  little  daughter  was  six  years  old. 
How  near  to  her  heart  the  echoes  of  her  child's  tread  came, 
and  those  of  her  own  dear  father's,  always  active  and  self- 
possessed,  and  those  of  her  dear  husband's,  need  not  be  told. 
Nor,  how  th<  lightest  echo  of  their  united  home,  directed  by 
herself  with  such  a  wxse  and  elegant  thrift  that  it  was  more 
abundant  than  any  waste,  was  music  to  her.  Nor,  how  thtre 
were  echoes  all  about  her,  sweet  in  her  ears,  of  the  many 
times  her  father  had  told  her  that  he  found  her  more  devoted 
to  him  married  (if  that  could  be)  than  single,  and  of  the  many 
times  her  husband  had  said  to  her  that  no  cares  and  duties 
seemed  to  divide  her  love  for  him  or  her  help  to  him,  and 
asked  her  "  What  is  the  magic  secret,  my  darling,  of  your 
being  everything  to  all  of  us,  as  if  there  were  only  one  of  us, 
yet  never  seeming  to  be  hurried,  or  to  have  too  much  to  do }  " 


200 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


But,  there  were  other  echoes,  from  a  distance,  that  rum- 
bled menacingly  in  the  corner  all  through  this  space  of  time, 
And  it  was  now,  about  little  Lucie's  sixth  birthday,  that  the)' 
began  to  have  an  awful  sound,  as  of  a  great  storm  in  France 
with  a  dreadful  sea  rising. 

On  a  night  in  mid-July,  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
eighty-nine,  Mr.  Lorry  came  in  late,  from  Tellson's,  and  sat 
himself  down  by  Lucie  and  her  husband  in  the  dark  window. 
It  was  a  hot,  wild  night,  and  they  w^ere  all  three  reminded  ol 
the  old  Sunday  night  when  they  had  looked  at  the  lightning 
from  the  same  place. 

I  began  to  think,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  pushing  his  brown 
wig  back,  that  I  should  have  to  pass  the  night  at  Tellson's. 
We  have  been  so  full  of  business  all  day,  that  we  have  not 
known  what  to  do  first,  or  which  way  to  turn.  There  is  such 
an  uneasiness  in  Paris,  that  we  have  actually  a  run  of  confi- 
dence upon  us !  Our  customers  over  there,  seem  not  to  be 
able  to  confide  their  property  to  us  fast  enough.  There  is 
positively  a  mania  among  some  of  them  for  sending  it  to  Eng- 
land." 

That  has  a  bad  look,"  said  Darnay. 

"  A  bad  look,  you  say,  my  dear  Darnay  ?  Yes,  bu(  we 
don't  know  what  reason  there  is  in  it.  People  are  so  unrea- 
sonable !  Some  of  us  at  Tellson's  are  getting  old,  and  we 
really  can't  be  troubled  out  of  the  ordinary  course  without 
due  occasion." 

"  Still,"  said  Darnay,  "you  know  how  gloomy  and  threat- 
ening the  sky  is." 

"  I  know  that,  to  be  sure,"  assented  Mr.  Lorry,  trying  to 
persuade  himself  that  his  sweet  temper  was  soured,  and  that 
he  grumbled,  "  but  I  am  determined  to  be  peevish  after  my 
long  day's  botheration.    Where  is  Manette  ?  " 

"  Here  he  is,"  said  the  Doctor,  entering  the  dark  room  at 
the  moment. 

"  I  am  quite  glad  you  are  at  home  ;  for  these  huiries  anci 
forebodings  by  which  I  have  been  surrounded  all  day  long, 
have  made  me  nervous  without  reason.  You  are  not  going 
out,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  am  going  to  play  backgammon  with  you,  if  you 
like,"  said  the-Doctor. 

"  I  don't  think  I  do  like,  if  I  may  speak  my  mind.  I  am 
not  fit  to  be  pitted  against  you  to  -night.  Is  the  tea-board  stiU 
there,  Lucie  ?    I  can't  see," 


ECHOING  FOOTSTEPS. 


2C1 


"  Of  course  it  has  been  kept  for  you." 

"  Thank  ye,  my  dear.   The  precious  child  is  safe  in  bed  ? " 

"And  sleeping  soundly." 

"  That's  right ;  all  safe  and  well !  I  don't  know  why  any- 
thing should  be  otherwise  than  safe  and  well  here,  thank  God  ; 
but  I  have  been  so  put  out  all  day,  and  I  am  not  as  young  as 
I  was  !  My  tea,  my  dear !  Thank  ye.  Now,  come  and  take 
your  place  in  the  circle,  and  let  us  sit  quiet,  and.  hear  the 
echoes  about  which  you  have  your  theory." 
Not  a  theory  ;  it  was  a  fancy." 

^'  A  fancy,  then,  my  wise  pet,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  patting  her 
hand.  They  are  very  numerous  and  very  loud,  though,  are 
they  not  ?    Only  hear  them  !  " 

Headlong,  mad,  and  dangerous  footsteps  to  force  their  way 
into  anybody's  life,  footsteps  not  easily  made  clean  again  if 
once  stained  red,  the  footsteps  raging  in  Saint  Antoine  afar 
off,  as  the  little  circle  sat  in  the  dark  London  window. 

Saint  Antoine  had  been,  that  morning,  a  vast  dusky  mass 
of  scarecrows  heaving  to  and  fro,  with  frequent  gleams  of 
light  above  the  billowy  heads,  where  steel  blades  and  bayonets 
shone  in  the  sun.  A  tremendous  roar  arose  from  the  throat  of 
Saint  Antoine,  and  a  forest  of  naked  arms  struggled  in  the 
air  like  shrivelled  branches  of  trees  in  a  winter  wind  :  all  the 
fingers  convulsively  clutching  at  every  weapon  or  semblance 
of  a  weapon  that  was  thrown  up  from  the  depth  below,  no 
matter  how  far  off. 

Who  gave  them  out,  whence  they  last  came,  where  they 
began,  through  what  agency  they  crookedly  quivered  and 
jerked,  scores  at  a  time,  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  like  a 
kind  of  lightning,  no  eye  in  the  throng  could  have  told  ;  but, 
muskets  were  being  distributed — so  were  cartridges,  powder, 
and  ball,  bars  of  iron  and  wood,  knives,  axes,  pikes,  every 
weapon  that  distracted  ingenuity  could  discover  or  devise. 
People  who  could  lay  hold  of  nothing  else,  set  themselves  with 
bleeding  hands  to  force  stones  and  bricks  out  of  their  places 
m  walls.  Every  pulse  and  heart  in  Saint  Antoine  was  on 
high-fever  strain,  and  at  high-fever  heat.  Every  living  crea- 
ture there  held  life  as  of  no  account,  and  was  demented  with 
a  passionate  readiness  to  sacrifice  it. 

As  a  whirlpool  of  boiUng  waters  has  a  centre  point,  so,  all 
this  raging  circled  round  Defarge's  wine-shop,  and  every  hu- 
man drop  in  the  caldron  had  a  tendency  to  be  sucked  towards 


202 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


the  vortex  where  Defarge  himself,  already  begrimed  with  gun- 
powder and  sweat,  issued  orders,  issued  arms,  thrust  this  man 
back,  dragged  this  man  forward,  disarmed  one  to  arm  another, 
labored  and  strove  in  the  thickest  of  the  uproar. 

"  Keep  near  to  me,  Jacques  Three,"  cried  Defarge  ;  and 
do  you,  Jacques  One  and  Two,  separate  and  put  yourselves  at 
the  head  of  as  many  of  these  patriots  as  you  can.  Where  is 
my  wife  ? 

"  Eh,  well !  Here  you  see  me !  "  said  madame,  composed 
as  ever,  but  not  knitting  to-day.  Madame's  resolute  right 
hand  was  occupied  with  an  axe,  in  place  of  the  usual  softer 
implements,  and  in  her  girdle  were  a  pistol  and  a  cruel  knife. 

"  Where  do  you  go,  my  wife  .-^  " 

"  I  go,''  said  madame,  "  with  you  at  present.  You  shall 
see  me  at  the  head  of  women,  by  and  by." 

"  Come,  then  !  "  cried  Defarge,  in  a  resounding  voice. 
"  Patriots  and  friends,  we  are  ready !    The  Bastile  !  " 

With  a  roar  that  sounded  as  if  all  the  breath  in  France 
had  been  shaped  into  the  detested  word,  the  living  sea  rose, 
wave  on  wave,  depth  on  depth,  and  overflowed  the  city  to 
that  point.  Alarm-bells  ringing,  drums  beating,  the  sea  rag- 
ing and  thundering  on  its  new  beach,  the  attack  begun. 

Deep  ditches,  double  drawbridge,  massive  stone  walls, 
eight  great  towers,  cannon,  muskets,  fire  and  smoke.  Through 
the  fire  and  through  the  smoke — in  the  fire  and  in  the  smoke, 
for  the  sea  cast  him  up  against  a  cannon,  and  on  the  instant 
he  became  a  cannonier — Defarge  of  the  wine-shop  worked 
like  a  manful  soldier,  two  fierce  hours. 

Deep  ditch,  single  drawbridge,  massive  stone  walls,  eight 
great  towers,  cannon,  muskets,  fire  and  smoke.  One  draw- 
bridge down  !  "  Work,  comrades  all,  work  !  Work,  Jacques 
One,  Jacques  Two,  Jacques  One  Thousand,  Jacques  Two 
Thousand,  Jacques  Five-and-Twenty-Thousand ;  in  the  name 
of  all  the  Angels  or  the  Devils — which*  you  prefer — work  !" 
Thus  Defarge  of  the  wine-shop,  still  at  his  gun,  which  had 
long  grown  hot. 

"  To  me,  women  !  "  cried  madame  his  wife.  "  What  I  V/g 
can  kill  as  well  as  the  men  when  the  place  is  taken  !  "  Ai)d 
to  her,  with  a  shrill  thirsty  cry,  trooping  women  variously 
armed,  but  all  armed  alike  in  hunger  and  revenge. 

Cannon,  muskets,  fire  and  smoke ;  but,  still  the  deep 
ditch,  the  single  draw-bridge,  the  massive  stone  walls,  and 
the  eight  great  towers.    Slight  displacements  of  the  raging 


ECHOING  FOOTSTEPS. 


203 


sea,  made  by  the  falling  wounded.  Flashing  weapons,  blaz- 
ing torches,  smoking  wagon-loads  of  wet  straw,  hard  work  at 
neighboring  barricades  in  all  directions,  shrieks,  volleys,  exe- 
crationSj  bravery  without  stint,  boom  smash  and  rattle,  and 
the  furious  sounding  of  the  living  sea  ;  but,  still  the  deep 
ditch,  and  the  single  drawbridge,  and  the  massive  stone 
walls.,  and  the  eight  great  towers,  and  still  Defarge  of  the 
wine-shop  at  his  gun,  grown  doubly  hot  by  the  service  of  Four 
fierce  hours. 

A  white  flag  from  within  the  fortress,  and  a  parley — this 
dimly  perceptible  through  the  raging  storm,  nothing  audible 
in  it — suddenly  the  sea  rose  immeasurably  wider  and  higher, 
and  swept  Defarge  of  the  wine-shop  over  the  lowered  draw- 
bridge, past  the  massive  stone  outer  walls,  in  among  the  eight 
great  towers  surrendered ! 

So  resistless  was  the  force  of  the  ocean  bearing  him  on, 
that  even  to  draw  his  breath  or  turn  his  head  was  as  imprac- 
ticable as  if  he  had  been  struggling  in  the  surf  at  the  South, 
Sea,  until  he  was  landed  in  the  outer  court-yard  of  the  Bas- 
tile.  There,  against  an  angle  of  a  wall,  he  made  a  struggle 
to  look  about  him.  Jacques  Three  was  nearly  at  his  side  ; 
Madame  Defarge,  still  heading  some  of  her  women,  was 
visible  in  the  mner  distance,  and  her  knife  was  in  her  hand. 
Everywhere  was  tumult,  exultation,  deafening  and  maniacal 
bewilderment,  astounding  noise,  yet  furious  dumb-show 

"  The  Prisoners  !  " 

"  The  Records  ! 
The  secret  cells  ! " 

"  The  instruments  of  torture  !  " 

'*  The  Prisoners  !  " 

Of  all  these  cries,  and  ten  thousand  incoherencies,  "  The 
Prisoners ! was  the  cry  most  taken  up  by  the  sea  that 
rushed  in,  as  if  there  were  an  eternity  of  people,  as  well  as  of 
time  and  space.  When  the  foremost  billows  rolled  past, 
bearing  the  prison  officers  with  them,  and  threatening  them 
all  with  instant  death  if  any  secret  nook  remained  undisclosed, 
Defarge  laid  his  strong  hand  on  the  breast  of  one  of  these 
men- — a  man  with  a  gray  head,  who  had  a  lighted  torch  in 
his  hand — separated  him  from  the  rest,  and  got  him  between 
himself  and  the  wall. 

"  Show  me  the  North  Tower  !  "  said  Defarge.    "  Quick  I 
I  will  faithfully,"  replied  the  man,  "  if  you  will  come  with 
me.    But  there  is  no  one  there." 


204 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


What  is  the  meaning  of  One  Hundred  and  Five,  North 
Tower  ? asked  Defarge.    "  Quick  !  " 
"  The  meaning,  monsieur  ?  " 

"  Does  it  mean  a  captive,  or  a  place  of  captivity  ?  Or  do 
you  mean  that  I  shall  strike  you  dead  ? " 

"  Kill  him  !  "  croaked  Jacques  Three,  who  had  come  up. 
"  Monsieur,  it  is  a  cell/' 

Show  it  me  ! 
"  Pass  this  way,  then." 

Jacques  Three,  with  his  usual  craving  on  him,  and  evi- 
dently disappointed  by  the  dialogue  taking  a  turn  that  did 
not  seem  to  promise  bloodshed,  held  by  Defarge's  arm  as  he 
held  by  the  turnkey's.  Their  three  heads  had  been  close  to- 
gether during  this  brief  discourse,  and  it  had  been  as  much 
as  they  could  do  to  hear  one  another,  even  then  :  so  tremen- 
dous was  the. noise  of  the  living  ocean,  in  its  irruption  into  the 
Fortress,  and  its  inundation  of  the  courts  and  passages  and 
staircases.  All  around  outside,  too,  it  beat  the  walls  with  a 
deep,  hoarse  roar,  from  which,  occasionally,  some  partial 
shouts  of  tumult  broke  and  leaped  into  the  air  like  spray. 

Through  gloomy  vaults  where  the  light  of  day  had  never 
shone,  past  hideous  doors  of  dark  dens  and  cages,  down 
ravenous  flights  of  steps,  and  again  up  steep  rugged  ascents 
of  stone  and  brick,  more  like  dry  waterfalls  than  staircases, 
Defarge,  the  turnkey,  and  Jacques  Three,  linked  hand  and 
arm,  went  with  all  the  speed  they  could  make.  Here  and 
there,  especially  at  first,  the  inundation  started  on  them  and 
swept  by;  but  when  they  had  done  descending,  and  were 
winding  and  climbing  up  a  tower,  they  were  alone.  Hemmed 
in  here  by  the  massive  thickness  of  walls  and  arches,  the 
storm  within  the  fortress  and  without  was  only  audible  to 
them  in  a  dull,  subdued  way,  as  if  the  noise  out  of  which 
they  had  come  had  almost  destroyed  their  sense  of  hearing. 

The  turnkey  stopped  at  a  low  door,  put  a  key  in  a  clash- 
ing lock,  swung  the  door  slowly  open,  and  said,  as  they  all 
bent  their  heads  and  passed  in  : 

'^One  Hundred  and  five.  North  Tower! " 

There  was  a  small,  heavily-grated,  unglazed  window  high 
in  the  wall,  with  a  stone  screen  before  it,  so  that  the  sky 
could  be  only  seen  by  stooping  low  and  looking  up.  There 
v/as  a  small  chimney,  heavily  barred  across,  a  few  feet  within. 
There  was  a  heap  of  old  feathery  wood-ashes  on  the  hearth. 
Ti.ere  was  a  stool,  and  table,  and  a  straw  bed.  There 


ECHOING  FOOTSTEPS, 


were  the  four  blackened  walls,  and  a  rusted  iron  ring  in  one 
of  them. 

Pass  that  torch  slowly  along  these  walls,  that  I  may  see 
them,''  said  Defarge  to  the  turnkey. 

The  man  obeyed,  and  Defarge  followed  the  light  closely 
with  his  eyes. 

Stop  ! — Look  here,  Jacques  !  " 

"  A.  M.  !     croaked  Jacques  Three,  as  he  read  greedily. 

*^  Alexandre  Manette,"  said  Defarge  in  his  ear,  following 
the  letters  with  his  swart  forefinger,  deeply  engrained  with  gun- 
powder.   "  And  here  he  wrote  *  a  poor  physician.'    And  it  was 
he,  without  doubt,  who  scratched  a  calendar  on  this  stone. 
What  is  that  in  your  hand  ?    A  crowbar  ?    Give  it  me  !  " 

He  had  still  the  linstock  of  his  gun  in  his  own  hand.  He 
made  a  sudden  exchange  of  the  two  instruments,  and  turning 
on  the  worm-eaten  stool  and  table,  beat  them  to  pieces  in  a 
few  blows. 

"  Hold  the  light  higher !  "  he  said,  wrathfully,  to  the 
turnkey.  "  Look  among  those  fragments  with  care,  Jacques. 
And  see  !  Here  is  my  knife,"  throwing  it  to  him  ;  rip 
open  that  bed,  and  search  the  straw.  Hold  the  light  higher, 
you  !  " 

With  a  menacing  look  at  the  turnkey  he  crawled  upon  the 
hearth,  and,  peering  up  the  chimney,  struck  and  prised  at  its 
sides  with  the  crowbar,  and  worked  at  the  iron  grating  across 
it.  In  a  few  minutes,  some  mortar  and  dust  came  dropping 
down,  which  he  averted  his  face  to  avoid  ;  and  in  it,  and  in  the 
old  wood-ashes,  and  in  a  crevice  in  the  chimney  into  which  his 
weapon  had  slipped  or  wrought  itself,  he  groped  with  a  cau- 
tious touch. 

Nothing  in  the  wood,  and  nothing  in  the  straw,  Jac- 
ques ? " 

"  Nothing." 

"  Let  us  collect  them  together,  in  the  middle  of  the  cell 
So  !    Light  them,  you  1  " 

The  turnkey  fired  the  little  pile,  which  blazed  high  and 
hot.  Stooping  again  to  come  out  at  the  low-arched  door, 
they  left  it  burning,  and  retraced  their  way  to  the  court-yard  \ 
seeming  to  recover  their  sense  of  hearing  as  they  came  down, 
until  they  were  in  the  raging  flood  once  more. 

They  found  it  surging  and  tossing,  in  quest  of  Defarge 
himself.  Saint  Antoine  was  clamorous  to  have  its  wine-shop 
keeper  foremost  in  the  guard  upon  the  governor  who  had  de- 


2o6 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


fended  the  Bastile  and  shot  the  people.  Otherwise,  the  go^ 
ernor  would  not  be  marched  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville  for  judg- 
ment. Otherwise,  the  governor  would  escape,  and  the  pea 
pie's  blood  (suddenly  of  some  value,  after  many  years  ol 
worthlessness)  be  unavenged. 

In  the  howling  universe  of  passion  and  contention  that 
seemed  to  encompass  this  grim  old  officer  conspicuous  in  his 
gray  coat  and  red  decoration,  there  was  but  one  quite  steady 
figure,  and  that  was  a  woman's.  "  See,  there  is  my  husband  !  " 
she  cried,  pointing  him  out.  "  See  Defarge  !  "  She  stood 
immovable  close  to  the  grim  old  officer,  and  remained  im- 
movable close  to  him  ;  remained  immovable  close  to  him 
through  the  streets,  as  Defarge  and  the  rest  bore  him  along  ; 
remained  immovable  close  to  him  when  he  was  got  near  his 
destination,  and  began  to  be  struck  at  from  behind  ;  remained 
immovable  close  to  him  when  the  long-gathering  rain  of  stabs 
and  blows  fell  heavy ;  was  so  close  to  him  when  he  dropped 
dead  under  it,  that,  suddenly  animated,  she  put  her  foot  upon 
his  neck,  and  with  her  cruel  knife — long  ready — hewed  off  his 
head. 

The  hour  was  come  when  Saint  Antoine  was  to  execute 
his  horrible  idea  of  hoisting  up  men  for  lamps  to  show  what 
he  could  be  and  do.  Saint  Antoine's  blood  was  up,  and  the 
blood  of  tyranny  and  domination  by  the  iron  hand  was  down 
— down  on  the  steps  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  where  the  governor's 
body  lay — down  on  the  sole  of  the  shoe  of  Madame  Defarge 
where  she  had  trodden  on  the  body  to  steady  it  for  mutilation. 
"  Lower  the  lamp  yonder !  "  cried  Saint  Antoine,  after  glaring 
round  for  a  new  means  of  death ;  "here  is  one  of  his  soldiers 
to  be  left  on  guard  !  "  The  swinging  sentinel  was  posted, 
and  the  sea  rushed  on. 

The  sea  of  black  and  threatening  waters,  and  of  destructive 
upheaving  of  wave  against  wave,  whose  depths  were  yet  un- 
fathomed  and  whose  forces  were  yet  unknown.  The  remorse- 
less sea  of  turbulently  swaying  shapes,  voices  of  vengeance, 
and  faces  hardened  in  the  furnaces  of  suffering  until  the  touch 
of  pity  could  make  no  mark  on  them. 

But.  in  the  ocean  of  faces  where  every  fierce  and  furious 
expression  was  in  vivid  life,  there  were  two  groups  of  faces- 
each  seven  in  number — so  fixedly  contrasting  with  the  rest, 
that  never  did  sea  roll  which  bore  more  memorable  wrecks 
with  it.  Seven  faces  of  prisoners,  suddenly  released  by  the 
storm  that  had  burst  their  tomb,  were  carried  high  overhead  • 


THE  SEA  STILL  RISES. 


207 


all  scared,  all  lost,  all  wondering  and  amazed,  as  it  the  Last 
Day  were  come,  and  those  who  rejoiced  around  them  were 
lost  spirits.  Other  seven  faces  there  were,  carried  higher, 
seven  dead  faces,  whose  drooping  eyelids  and  half-seen  eyes 
awaited  the  Last  Day.  Impassive  faces,  yet  with  a  suspended 
— not  an  abolished — expression  on  them  ;  faces,  rather,  in  a 
fearful  pause,  as  having  yet  to  raise  the  dropped  lids  of  the 
eyes,  arid  bear  witness  with  the  bloodless  lips,  "Thou  pidst 

Seven  prisoners  released,  seven  gory  heads  on  pikes,  the 
keys  of  the  accursed  fortress  of  the  eight  strong  towers,  some 
discovered  letters  and  other  memorials  of  prisoners  of  old- 
time,  long  dead  of  broken  hearts, — such,  and  such-like,  the 
loudly  echoing  footsteps  of  Saint  Antoine  escort  through  the 
Paris  streets  in  mid-July,  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
eighty-nine.  Now,  Heaven  defeat  the  fancy  of  Lucie  Darn  ay, 
and  keep  these  feet  far  out  of  her  life  !  For,  they  are  head- 
long, mad,  and  dangerous  ;  and  in  the  years  so  long  after  the 
breaking  of  the  cask  at  Defarge's  wine-shop  door,  they  are  not 
'easily  purified  when  once  stained  red. 


CHAPTER  XXIL 

THE  SEA  STILL  RISES. 

Haggard  Saint  Antoine  had  had  only  one  exultant  week, 
in  which  to  soften  his  modicum  of  hard  and  bitter  bread  to 
such  extent  as  he  could,  with  the  relish  of  fraternal  embraces 
and  congratulations,  when  Madame  Defarge  sat  at  her  counter 
as  usual,  presiding  over  the  customers.  Madame  Defarge 
wore  no  rose  in  her  head,  for  the  great  brotherhood  of  Spies 
had  become,  even  in  one  short  week,  extremely  chary  of  trust- 
ing themselves  to  the  saint's  mercies.  The  lamps  across  his 
streets  had  a  portentously  elastic  swing  with  them. 

Madame  Defarge,  with  her  arms  folded,  sat  in  the  morn- 
ing light  and  heat,  contemplating  the  wine-shop  and  the  street. 
In  both,  there  were  several  knots  of  loungers,  squalid  and 
miserable,  but  now  with  a  manifest  sense  of  power  enthroned 
on  their  distress.     The  raggedest  nightcap,  awry  on  the 


^oo  A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES^  ^ 

wretchedest  head,  had  this  crooked  significance  in  it :  "1 
know  how  hard  it  has  grown  for  me,  the  wearer  of  this,  to 
support  life  in  myself ;  but  do  you  know  how  easy  it  has 
grown  for  me,  the  wearer  of  this,  to  destroy  life  in  you  ? 
Every  lean  bare  arm,  that  had  been  without  work  before,  had 
this  work  always  ready  for  it  now,  that  it  could  strike.  The 
fingers  of  the  knitting  women  were  vicious,  with  the  experience 
that  they  could  tear.  There  was  a  change  in  the  appearance 
of  Saint  Antoine ;  the  image  had  been  hammering  into  thisfoi 
hundreds  of  years,  and  the  last  finishing  blows  had  told 
mightily  on  the  expression. 

Madame  Defarge  sat  observing  it,  with  such  suppressed 
approval  as  was  to  be  desired  in  the  leader  of  the  Saint 
Antoine  women.  One  of  her  sisterhood  knitted  beside  her. 
The  short,  rather  plump  wife  of  a  starved  grocer,  and  the 
mother  of  two  children  withal,  this  lieutenant  had  already 
earned  the  complimentary  name  of  The  Vengeance. 

Hark !  "  said  The  Vengeance.  "  Listen,  then  !  Who 
comes  ? 

As  if  a  train  of  powder  laid  from  the  outermost  bound  of 
the  Saint  Antoine  Quarter  to  the  wine-shop  door,  had  been 
suddenly  fired,  a  fast-spreading  murmur  came  rushing  along. 

"  It  is  Defarge,"  said  madame.    "  Silence,  patriots  ! 

Defarge  came  in  breathless,  pulled  off  a  red  cap  he  wore, 
and  looked  around  him !  Listen,  everywhere ! "  said 
madame  again.  "  Listen  to  him  !  "  Defarge  stood,  panting, 
against  a  background  of  eager  eyes  and  open  mouths,  formed 
outside  the  door ;  all  those  within  the  wine-shop  had  sprung 
to  their  feet. 

Say  then,  my  husband.    What  is  it? 
News  from  the  other  world  !  " 

^^How,  then?"  cried  madame,  contemptuously.  "The 
other  world  ?  " 

"  Does  ever^^body  here  recall  old  Foulon,  who  told  the 
famished  people  that  they  might  eat  giass,  and  who  died,  and 
went  to  Hell  ?  " 

"  Everybody  !  "  from  all  throats. 

"  The  news  is  of  him.    He  is  among  us  !  " 

"  Among  us  !  "  from  the  universal  throat  again.  "  And 
dead  ? " 

Not  dead  !  He  feared  us  so  much — and  with  reason — ■ 
that  he  caused  himself  to  be  represented  as  dead,  and  had  a 
grand  mock-funeral.    But  they  have  found  him  alive,  niding 


THE  SEA  STILL  RISES, 


in  the  country,  and  have  brought  him  in.  I  have  seen  him 
but  now,  on  his  way  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  a  prisoner.  I  have 
said  that  he  had  reason  to  fear  us.  Say  all !  Had  he  rea- 
son  ?  " 

Wretched  old  sinner  of  more  than  threescore  years  and 
ten,  if  he  had  never  known  it  yet,  he  would  have  known  it  in 
his  heart  of  hearts  if  he  could  have  heard  the  answering  cry. 

A  moment  of  profound  silence  followed.  Defarge  and  his 
i\'ife  looked  steadfastly  at  one  another.  The  Vengeance 
stooped,  and  the  jar  of  a  drum  was  heard  as  she  moved  it  at 
her  feet  behind  the  counter. 

"  Patriots  !  "  said  Defarge,  in  a  determined  voice,  *'are  we 
ready  ? 

Instantly  Madame  Defarge's  knife  was  in  her  girdle  \  the 
drum  was  beating  in  the  streets,  as  if  it  and  a  drummer  had 
flown  together  by  magic  ;  and  The  Vengeance,  uttering  terrific 
shrieks,  and  flinging  her  arms  about  her  head  like  all  the 
forty  Furies  at  once,  was  tearing  from  house  to  house,  rousing 
the  women. 

The  men  were  terrible,  in  the  bloody-minded  anger  with 
which  they  looked  from  windows,  caught  up  what  arms  they 
had,  and  came  pouring  down  into  the  streets ;  but,  the  w^omen 
were  a  sight  to  chill  the  boldest.  From  such  household  oc- 
cupations as  their  bare  poverty  yielded,  from  their  children, 
from  their  aged  and  their  sick  crouching  on  the  bare  ground 
famished  and  naked,  they  ran  out  with  streaming  hair,  urging 
one  another,  and  themselves,  to  madness  with  the  wildest 
cries  and  actions.  Villain  Foulon  taken,  my  sister !  Old 
Foulon  taken,  my  mother !  Miscreant  Foulon  taken,  my 
daughter  !  Then,  a  score  of  others  ran  into  the  midst  of 
these,  beating  their  breasts,  tearing  their  hair,  and  screaming, 
Foulon  alive !  Foulon  who  told  the  starving  people  they 
might  eat  grass  !  Foulon  who  told  my  old  father  that  he 
might  eat  grass,  when  I  had  no  bread  to  give  him  !  Foulon 
who  told  my  baby  it  might  suck  grass,  hen  these  breasts 
were  dry  with  want !  O  mother  of  God,  this  Foulon  !  O 
Heaven,  our  suffering !  Hear  me,  my  dead  baby  and  my 
withered  father  :  I  swear  on  my  knees,  on  these  stones,  to 
avenge  you  on  Foulon  !  Husbands,  and  brothers,  and  young 
men,  Give  us  the  blood  of  Foulon,  Give  us  the  head  of  Foulon, 
Give  us  the  heart  of  Foulon,  Give  us  the  body  and  soul  of 
Foulon,  Rend  Foulon  to  pieces,  and  dig  him  into  the  ground, 
that  grass  may  grow  from  him  !    With  these  cries,  numbers  of 


210 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


the  women,  lashed  into  blind  frenzy,  whirled  about,  striking 
and  tearing  at  their  own  friends  until  they  dropped  into  a 
passionate  swoon,  and  were  only  saved  by  the  men  belonging 
to  them  from  being  trampled  under  foot. 

Nevertheless,  not  a  moment  was  lost ;  not  a  moment ! 
This  Foulon  was  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  might  be  loosed. 
Never,  if  Saint  Antoine  knew  his  own  sufferings,  insults,  and 
wrongs  !  Armed  men  and  women  flocked  out  of  the  Quarter 
so  fast,  and  drew  even  these  last  dregs  after  them  with  such  a 
force  of  suction,  that  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  there  was 
not  a  human  creature  in  Saint  Antoine's  bosom  but  a  few  old 
crones  and  the  wailing  children. 

No.  They  were  all  by  that  time  choking  the  Hall  of 
Examination  where  this  old  man,  ugly  and  wicked,  was,  and 
overflowing  into  the  adjacent  open  space  and  streets.  The 
Defarges,  husband  and  wife.  The  Vengeance,  and  Jacques 
Three,  were  in  the  first  press,  and  at  no  great  distance  from 
him  in  the  Hall. 

"See  ! cried  madame,  pointing  with  her  knife.  "  See  the 
old  villain  bound  with  ropes.  That  was  well  done  to  tie  a 
bunch  of  grass  upon  his  back.  Ha,  ha  !  That  was  well 
done.  Let  him  eat  it  now  !  "  Madame  put  her  knife  under 
her  arm  and  clapped  her  hands  as  at  a  play. 

The  people  immediately  behind  Madame  Defarge,  explain- 
ing the  cause  of  her  satisfaction  to  those  behind  them-,  and 
those  again  explaining  to  others,  and  those  to  others,  the 
neighboring  streets  resounded  with  the  clapping  of  hands. 
Similarly,  during  two  or  three  hours  of  drawl,  and  the  winnow- 
ing of  many  bushels  of  words,  Madame  Defarge's  frequent  ex- 
pressions of  impatience  were  taken  up,  with  marvellous  quick- 
ness, at  a  distance  :  the  more  readily,  because  certain  men  who 
had  by  some  wonderful  exercise  of  agility  climbed  up  the  ex- 
ternal architecture  to  look  in  from  the  windows,  knew  Ma- 
dame Defarge  well,  and  acted  as  a  telegraph  between  her  and 
the  crowd  outside  the  building. 

At  length  the  sun  rose  so  high  that  it  struck  a  kindly  ray 
as  of  hope  or  protection,  directly  down  upon  the  old  prisoner's 
head.  The  favor  was  too  much  to  bear  ;  in  an  instant  the 
barrier  of  dust  and  chaff  that  had  stood  surprisingly  long,  went 
to  the  winds,  and  Saint  Antoine  had  got  him  ! 

It  was  kno\yn  directly,  to  the  furthest  confines  of  the  crowd. 
Defarge  had  but  sprung  over  a  railing  and  a  table,  and  folded 
the  miserable  wretch  in  a  deadly  embrace — Madame  Defarge 


THE  SEA  STILL  RISES, 


211 


ftad  but  followed  and  turned  her  hand  in  one  of  the  ropes  with 
which  he  was  tied — The  Vengeance  and  Jacques  Three  were 
not  yet  up  with  them,  and  the  men  at  the  windows  had  not  yet 
swooped  into  the  Hall,  like  birds  of  prey  from  their  high 
perches — when  the  cry  seemed  to  go  up,  all  over  the  city, 
Bring  him  out  !    Bring  him  to  the  lamp  !  " 

Down,  and  up,  and  head  foremost  on  the  steps  of  the 
building;  now,  on  his  knees  ;  now,  on  his  feet;  now,  on  his 
back  ;  dragged,  and  struck  at,  and  stifled  by  the  bunches  of 
grass  and  straw  that  were  thrust  into  his  face  by  hundreds  of 
hands ;  torn,  bruised,  panting,  bleeding,  yet  always  entreating 
and  beseeching  for  mercy  ;  now  full  of  vehement  agony  of 
action,  with  a  small  clear  space  about  him  as  the  people  drew 
one  another  back  that  they  might  see  ;  now,  a  log  of  dead 
wood  drawn  through  a  forest  of  legs  ;  he  was  hauled  to  the 
nearest  street  corner  where  one  of  the  fatal  lamps  swung,  and 
there  Madame  Defarge  let  him  go — as  a  cat  might  have  done 
to  a  mouse — and  silently  and  composedly  looked  at  him  while 
they  made  ready,  and  while  he  besought  her:  the  women  pas- 
sionately screeching  at  him  all  the  time,  and  the  men  sternly 
calling  out  to  have  him  killed  with  grass  in  his  mouth.  Once, 
he  went  aloft,  and  the  rope  broke,  and  they  caught  him 
shrieking ;  twice,  he  went  aloft,  and  the  rope  broke,  and  they 
caught  him  shrieking  ;  then,  the  rope  was  merciful,  and  held 
him,  and  his  head  was  soon  upon  a  pike,  with  grass  enough 
in  the  mouth  for  all  Saint  Antoine  to  dance  at  the  sight  of. 

Nor  was  this  the  end  of  the  day's  bad  work,  for  Saint  An- 
toine so  shouted  and  danced  his  angry  blood  up,  that  it  boiled 
again,  on  hearing  when  the  day  closed  in  that  the  son-in-law 
of  the  despatched,  another  of  the  people's  enemies  and  insult- 
ers,  was  coming  into  Paris  under  a  guard  five  hundred  strong, 
in  cavalry  alone.  Saint  Antoine  wrote  his  crimes  on  flaring 
sheets  of  paper,  seized  him — would  have  torn  him  out  of  the 
breast  of  an  army  to  bear  Foulon  company — set  his  head  and 
heart  on  pikes,  and  carried  the  three  spoils  of  the  day,  in 
Wolf-procession  through  the  streets. 

Not  before  dark  night  did  the  men  and  women  come  back 
to  the  children,  waiUng  and  breadless.  Then,  the  miserable 
bakers'  shops  were  beset  by  long  files  of  them,  patiently  waiting 
to  buy  bad  bread  ;  and  while  they  waited  with  stomachs  faint 
and  empty,  they  beguiled  the  time  by  embracing  one  another 
on  the  triumphs  of  the  day,  and  achieving  them  again  in  gos- 
sip.   Gradually,  these  strings  of  ragged  people  shortened  and 


212 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


frayed  away  ;  and  then  poor  lights  began  to  shine  in  high 
windows,  and  slender  fires  were  made  in  the  streets,  at  which 
neighbors  cooked  in  common,  afterwards  supping  at  their 
doors. 

Scanty  and  sufficient  suppers,  those,  and  innocent  of  meat, 
as  of  most  other  sauce  to  wretched  bread.  Yet,  human  fellow- 
ship infused  some  nourishment  into  the  flinty  viands,  and  struck 
some  sparks  of  cheerfulne*ss  out  of  them.  Fathers  and  mothers 
who  had  had  their  full  share  in  the  worst  of  the  day,  played 
gently  with  their  meagre  children ;  and  lovers,  with  such  a 
world  around  them  and  before  them,  loved  and  hoped. 

It  was  almost  morning,  when  Defarge's  wine-shop  parted 
w^ith  its  last  knot  of  customers,  and  Monsieur  Defarge  said 
to  madame  his  wife,  in  husky  tones,  while  fastening  the 
door: 

"  At  last  it  is  come,  my  dear !  " 
"Eh  well  "  returned  madame.  "  Almost.'' 
Saint  Antoine  slept,  the*  Defarges  slept :  even  The  Ven- 
geance slept  with  her  starved  grocer,  and  the  drum  was  at 
rest.  The  drum's  was  the  only  voice  in  Saint  Antoine  that 
blood  and  hurry  had  not  changed.  The  Vengeance,  as  cus- 
todian of  the  drum,  could  have  wakened  him  up  and  had  the 
same  speech  out  of  him  as  before  the  Bastile  fell,  or  old  Fou- 
Ion  was  seized ;  not  so  with  the  hoarse  tones  of  the  men  and 
women  in  Saint  Antoine's  bosom. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

FIRE  RISES. 

There  was  a  change  on  the  village  where  the  fountain 
foil,  and  where  the  mender  of  roads  went  forth  daily  to  ham- 
mer  out  of  the  stones  on  the  highway  such  morsels  of  bread 
as  might  serve  for  patches  to  hold  his  poor  ignorant  soul  and 
his  poor  reduced  body  together.  The  prison  on  the  crag  was 
not  so  dominant  as  of  yore  ;  there  were  soldiers  to  guard  it, 
but  not  many  ;  there  were  officers  to  guard  the  soldiers,  but 
not  one  of  them  knew  what  his  men  would  do — beyond  this: 
that  it  would  probably  not  be  what  he  was  ordered. 


FIRE  RISES, 


213 


Far  and  wide  lay  a  ruined  country,  yielding  nothing  but 
desolation.  Every  green  leaf,  every  blade  of  grass  and  blade 
of  grain,  was  as  shrivelled  and  poor  as  the  miserable  people, 
Everything  was  bowed  down,  dejected,  oppressed,  and  broken, 
Habitations,  fences,  domesticated  animals,  men,  women,  chil- 
dren, and  the  soil  that  bore  them — all  worn  out. 

Monseigneur  (often  a  most  worthy  individual  gentleman) 
was  a  national  blessing,  gave  a  chivalrous  tone  to  things,  was 
a  polite  example  of  luxurious  and  shining  life,  and  a  great 
deal  more  to  equal  purpose ;  nevertheless,  Monseigneur  as  a 
class  had,  somehow  or  other,  brought  things  to  this.  Strange 
that  Creation,  designed  expressly  for  Monseigneur,  should 
be  so  soon  wrung  dry  and  squeezed  out !  There  must  be 
something  short-sighted  in  the  eternal  arrangements,  surely  ! 
Thus  it  was,  however  ;  and  the  last  drop  of  blood  having  been 
extracted  from  the  flints,  and  the  last  screw  of  the  rack  having 
been  turned  so  often  that  its  purchase  crumbled,  and  it  now 
turned  and  turned  with  nothing  to  bite,  Monseigneur  began  to 
run  away  from  a  phenomenon  so  low  and  unaccountable. 

But,  this  was  not  the  change  on  the  village,  and  on  many  a 
village  like  it.  For  scores  of  years  gone  by,  Monseigneur  had 
squeezed  it  and  wrung  it,  and  had  seldom  graced  it  with  his 
presence  except  for  the  pleasures  of  the  chase — now,  found  in 
hunting  the  people  ;  now  found  in  hunting  the  beasts,  for 
whose  preservation  Monseigneur  made  edifying  spaces  of  bar- 
barous and  barren  v/ilderness.  No.  The  change  consisted 
in  the  appearance  of  strange  faces  of  low  caste,  rather  than 
in  the  disappearance  of  the  high-caste,  chiselled,  and  otherwise 
beatified  and  beatifying  features  of  Monseigneur. 

For,  in  these  times,  as  the  mender  of  roads  worked,  solitary 
in  the  dust,  not  often  troubling  himself  to  reflect  that  dust  he 
was  and  to  dust  he  must  return,  being  for  the  most  part  too 
much  occupied  in  thinking  how  little  he  had  for  supper  and 
how  much  more  he  would  eat  if  he  had  it — in  these  times,  as 
he  raised  his  eyes  from  his  lonely  labor,  and  viewed  the  pros- 
pect, he  would  see  some  rough  figure  approaching  on  foot, 
the  like  of  which  was  once  a  rarity  in  those  parts,  but  was  now 
a  frequent  presence.  As  it  advanced,  the  mender  of  roads 
would  discern  without  surprise,  that  it  was  a  shagg3^-haired 
man,  of  almost  barbarian  aspect,  tall,  in  wooden  shoes  that 
were  clumsy  even  to  the  eyes  of  a  mender  of  roads,  grim^ 
rough,  swart,  steeped  in  the  mud  and  dust  of  many  highways, 
dank   with  the  marshy   moisture   of   many  low  grounds. 


214 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


sprinkled  with  the  thorns  and  leaves  and  moss  of  many  byways 
through  woods. 

Such  a  man  came  upon  him,  like  a  ghost,  at  noon  in  the 
July  weather,  as  he  sat  on  his  heap  of  stones  under  a  bank^ 
taking  such  shelter  as  he  could  get  from  a  shower  of  hail. 

The  man  looked  at  him,  looked  at  the  village  in  the  hol- 
low, at  the  mill,  and  at  the  prison  on  the  crag.  When  he  had 
identified  these  objects  in  what  benighted  mind  he  had,  he 
said,  in  a  dialect  that  was  just  intelligible : 

"  How  goes  it,  Jacques  }  " 

"  All  well,  Jacques." 

"  Touch  then  ! " 

They  joined  hands,  and  the  man  sat  down  on  a  heap  of 
stones. 

"  No  dinner  ?  " 

"  Nothing  but  supper  now,"  said  the  mender  of  roads,  with 
a  hungry  face. 

"  It  is  the  fashion,"  growled  the  man.  "  I  meet  no  dinner 
anywhere." 

He  took  out  a  blackened  pipe,  filled  it,  lighted  it  with  flint 
and  steel,  pulled  at  it  until  it  was  in  a  bright  glow :  then,  sud- 
denly held  it  from  him  and  dropped  something  into  it  from 
between  his  finger  and  thumb,  that  blazed  and  went  out  in  a 
puff  of  smoke. 

"  Touch  then."  It  was  the  turn  of  the  m-ender  of  roads 
to  say  it  this  time,  after  observing  these  operations.  They 
again  joined  hands. 

"  To-night  ?  "  said  the  mender  of  roads. 

"  To-night,"  said  the  man,  putting  the  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

"  Where  ? " 

"  Here." 

He  and  the  mender  of  roads  sat  on  the  heap  of  stones 
looking  silently  at  one  another,  with  the  hail  driving  in  be- 
tween them  like  a  pigmy  charge  of  bayonets,  until  the  sky 
began  to  clear  over  the  village. 

"  Show  me  !  "  said  the  traveller  then,  moving  to  the  brow 
of  the  hill. 

"  See  ! "  returned  the  mender  of  roads,  with  extended 
finger.  "  You  go  down  here,  and  straight  through  the  street, 
and  past  the  fountain  " 

"  To  the  Devil  with  all  that !  "  interrupted  the  other,  roW 
ing  his  eye  over  the  landscape.  "  /  go  through  no  streets 
and  past  no  fountains.    Well  ?  " 


FIRE  RISES. 


"Well  !  About  two  leagues  beyond  the  summit  of  that 
hill  above  the  village." 

"  Good.    When  do  you  cease  to  work  ?  " 
-    "  At  sunset." 

"  Will  you  wake  me,  before  departing  ?    I  have  walked 
two  nights  without  resting.    Let  me  finish  my  pipe,  and  I  shall 
sleep  like  a  child.    Will  you  wake  me  ?  " 
Surely." 

The  wayfarer  smoked  his  pipe  out,  put  it  in  his  breast, 
slipped  off  his  great  wooden  shoes,  and  lay  down  on  his  back 
on  the  heap  of  stones.    He  was  fast  asleep  directly. 

As  the  road  mender  plied  his  dusty  labor,  and  the  hail- 
clouds,  rolling  away,  revealed  bright  bars  and  streaks  of  sky 
which  were  responded  to  by  silver  gleams  upon  the  landscape, 
the  little  man  (who  wore  a  red  cap  now,  in  place  of  his  blue 
one)  seemed  fascinated  by  the  figure  on  the  heap  of  stones. 
His  eyes  were  so  often  turned  towards  it,  that  he  used  his 
tools  mechanically,  and,  one  would  have  said,  to  very  poor 
account.  The  bronze  face,  the  shaggy  black  hair  and  beard, 
the  coarse  woollen  red  cap,  the  rough  medley  dress  of  home- 
spun stuff  and  hairy  skins  of  beasts,  the  powerful  frame 
attenuated  by  spare  living,  and  the  sullen  and  desperate  com- 
pression of  the  lips  in  sleep,  inspired  the  mender  of  roads 
with  awe.  The  traveller  had  travelled  far,  and  his  feet  were 
footsore,  and  his  ankles  chafed  and  bleeding  ;  his  great  shoes, 
stuffed  with  leaves  and  grass,  had  been  heavy  to  drag  over 
the  many  long  leagues,  and  his  clothes  were  chafed  into  holes 
as  he  himself  was  into  sores.  Stooping  down  beside  him,  the 
road-mender  tried  to  get  a  peep  at  secret  weapons  in  his 
breast  or  where  not ;  but,  in  vain,  for  he  slept  with  his  arms 
crossed  upon  him,  and  set  as  resolutely  as  his  lips.  Fortified 
towns  with  their  stockades,  guard-houses,  gates,  trenches,  and 
drawbridges,  seemed  to  the  mender  of  roads,  to  be  so  much 
air  as  against  this  figure.  And  when  he  lifted  his  eyes  from 
it  to  the  horizon  and  looked  around,  he  saw  in  his  small  fancy 
similar  figures,  stopped  by  no  obstacle,  tending  to  centres  all 
over  France. 

The  man  slept  on,  indifferent  to  showers  of  hail  and  inter- 
vals of  brightness,  to  sunshine  on  his  face  and  shadow,  to  the 
pattering  lumps  of  dull  ice  on  his  body  and  the  diamonds  into 
which  the  sun  changed  them,  until  the  sun  was  low  in  the 
west,  and  the  sky  was  glowing.  Then,  the  mender  of  roads 
having  got  his  tools  together  and  all  things  ready  to  go  down 
into  the  village,  roused  him. 


2l6 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


"  Good  !  "  said  the  sleeper,  rising  on  his  elbow.    "  Two 
leagues  beyond  the  summit  of  the  hill  ? 
"About." 

"About.  Good!" 

The  mender  of  roads  went  home,  with  the  dust  going  on 
before  him  according  to  the  set  of  the  wind,  and  was  soon  at 
the  fountain^  squeezing  himself  in  among  the  lean  kine  brought 
there  to  drink,  and  appearing  even  to  whisper  to  them  in  his 
whispering  to  all  the  village.  When  the  village  had  taken  its 
poor  supper,  it  did  not  creep  to  bed,  as  it  usually  did,  but 
came  out  of  doors  again,  and  remained  there.  A  curious 
contagion  of  whispering  was  upon  it,  and  also,  when  it 
gathered  together  at  the  fountain  in  the  dark,  another  curious 
contagion  of  looking  expectantly  at  the  sky  in  one  direction 
only.  Monsieur  Gabelle,  chief  functionary  of  the  place,  be- 
came uneasy ;  went  out  on  his  house-top  alone,  and  looked  in 
that  direction  too ;  glanced  down  from  behind  his  chimneys 
at  the  darkening  faces  by  the  fountain  below,  and  sent  word 
to  the  sacristan  who  kept  the  keys  of  the  church,  that  there 
might  be  need  to  ring  the  tocsin  by  and  by. 

The  night  deepened.  The  trees  environing  the  old  chateau, 
keeping  its  solitary  state  apart,  moved  in  a  rising  wind,  as 
though  they  threatened  the  pile  of  building  massive  and  dark 
in  the  gloom.  Up  the  two  terrace  flights  of  steps  the  rain 
ran  wildly,  and  beat  at  the  great  door,  like  a  swift  messenger 
rousing  those  within  ;  uneasy  rushes  of  wind  went  through 
the  hall,  among  the  old  spears  and  knives,  and  passed  lament- 
ing up  the  stairs,  and  shook  the  curtains  of  the  bed  where 
the  last  Marquis  had  slept.  Elast,  West,  North,  and  South, 
through  the  woods,  four  heavy-treading,  unkempt  figures 
crushed  the  high  grass  and  cracked  the  branches,  striding  on 
cautiously  to  come  together  in  the  court-yard.  Four  lights 
broke  out  there,  and  moved  away  in  different  directions,  and 
all  was  black  again. 

But,  not  for  long.  Presently,  the  chateau  began  to  make 
itself  strangely  visible  by  some  light  of  its  own,  as  though  it 
were  growing  luminous.  Then,  a  flickering  streak  played  be- 
hind the  architecture  of  the  front,  picking  out  transparent 
places,  and  showing  where  balustrades,  arches,  and  windows 
were.  Then  it  soared  higher,  and  grew  broader  and  brighter. 
Soon,  from  a  score  of  the  great  windows,  flames  burst  forth, 
and  the  stone  faces  awakened,  stared  out  of  fire. 

A  faint  murmur  arose  about  the  house  from  the  few  people 


FIRE  RISES. 


217 


who  were  left  there,  and  there  was  a  saddling  of  a  horse  and 
riding  away.  There  was  spurring  and  splashing  through  the 
darkness,  and  bridle  was  drawn  in  the  space  by  the  village 
fountain,  and  the  horse  in  a  foam  stood  at  Monsieur  Gabelle's 
door.  "  Help,  Gabelle !  Help,  every  one  !  "  The  tocsin 
rang  impatiently,  but  other  help  (if  that  were  any)  there  was 
none.  The  mender  of  roads,  and  two  hundred  and  fifty 
particular  friends,  stood  with  folded  arms  at  the  fountain, 
looking  at  the  pillar  of  fire  in  the  sky.  "  It  must  be  forty  feet 
high,"  said  they,  grimly;  and  never  moved. 

The  rider  from  the  chateau,  and  the  horse  in  a  foam, 
clattered  away  through  the  village,  and  galloped  up  the  stony 
steep,  to  the  prison  on  the  crag.  At  the  gate,  a  group  of 
officers  were  looking  at  the  fire ;  removed  from  them,  a  group 
of  soldiers.  "  Help,  gentlemen-officers  !  The  chateau  is  on 
fire ;  valuable  objects  may  be  saved  from  the  flames  by  timely 
aid  !  Help,  help  !  "  The  officers  looked  towards  the  soldiers 
who  looked  at  the  fire  ;  gave  no  orders  \  and  answered,  with 
shrugs  and  biting  of  lips,    It  must  burn." 

As  the  rider  rattled  down  the  hill  again  and  through  the 
street,  the  village  was  illuminating.  The  mender  of  roads, 
and  the  two  hundred  and  fifty  particular  friends,  inspired  as 
one  man  and  woman  by  the  idea  of  lighting  up,  had  darted 
into  their  houses,  and  were  putting  candles  in  every  dull  little 
pane  of  glass.  The  general  scarcity  of  everything,  occasioned 
candles  to  be  borrowed  in  a  rather  peremptory  manner  of 
Monsieur  Gabelle  ;  and  in  a  moment  of  reluctance  and  hesita- 
tion on  that  functionary's  part,  the  mender  of  roads,  once  so 
submissive  to  authority,  had  remarked  that  carriages  were 
good  to  make  bonfires  with,  and  that  post-horses  would  roast. 

The  chateau  was  left  to  itself  to  flame  and  burn.  In  the 
roaring  and  raging  of  the  conflagration,  a  red-hot  wind,  driv- 
ing straight  from  the  infernal  regions,  seemed  to  be  blowing 
the  edifice  away.  With  the  rising  and  falling  of  the  blaze,  the 
stone  faces  showed  as  if  they  were  in  torment.  When  great 
masses  of  stone  and  timber  fell,  the  face  with  the  two  dints  in 
the  nose  became  obscured :  anon  struggled  out  of  the  smoke 
again,  as  if  it  were  the  face  of  the  cruel  Marquis,  burning  at 
the  stake  and  contending  with  the  fire. 

The  chateau  burned  ;  the  nearest  trees,  laid  hold  of  by  the 
fire,  scorched  and  shrivelled  ;  trees  at  a  distance,  fired  by  the 
four  fierce  figures,  begirt  the  blazing  edifice  with  a  new  forest 
of  smoke.    Molten  lead  and  iron  boiled  in  the  marble  basin 


2l8 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


of  the  fountain  ;  the  water  ran  dry ;  the  extinguisher  tops  o! 
the  towers  vanished  Hke  ice  before  the  heat,  and  trickled  down 
into  four  rugged  wells  of  flame.  Great  rents  and  splits 
branched  out  in  the  solid  walls,  like  crystallization  ;  stupefied 
birds  wheeled  about  and  dropped  into  the  furnace  ;  four  fierce 
figures  trudged  away.  East,  West,  North,  and  South,  along  the 
night-enshrouded  roads,  guided  by  the  beacon  they  had  lighted, 
towards  their  next  destination.  The  illuminated  village  had 
seized  hold  of  the  tocsin,  and,  abolishing  the  lawful  ringer, 
rang  for  joy. 

Not  only  that ;  but  the  village,  light-headed  with  famine, 
fire,  and  bell-ringing,  and  bethinking  itself  that  Monsieur 
Gabelle  had  to  do  with  the  collection  of  rent  and  taxes — 
though  it  was  but  a  small  instalment  of  taxes,  and  no  rent  at 
all,  that  Gabelle  had  got  in  those  latter  days — became  im- 
patient for  an  interview  with  him,  and,  surrounding  his  house, 
summoned  him  to  come  forth  for  personal  conference.  Where- 
upon, Monsieur  Gabelle  did  heavily  bar  his  door,  and  retire  to 
hold  counsel  with  himself.  The  result  of  that  conference  was, 
that  Gabelle  again  withdrew  himself  to  his  house-top  behind  his 
stack  of  chimneys  ;  this  time  resolved,  if  his  door  were  broken 
in  (he  was  a  small  Southern  man  of  retaliative  temperament), 
to  pitch  himself  head  foremost  over  the  parapet,  and  crush  a 
man  or  two  below. 

Probably  Monsieur  Gabelle  passed  a  long  night  up  there, 
with  the  distant  chateau  for  fire  and  candle,  and  the  beating 
at  his  door,  combined  with  the  joy-ringing,  for  music  ;  not  to 
mention  his  having  an  ill-omened  lamp  slung  across  the  road 
before  his  posting-house  gate,  which  the  village  showed  a 
lively  inclination  to  displace  in  his  favor.  A  trying  suspense, 
to  be  passing  a  whole  summer  night  on  the  brink  of  the  black 
ocean,  ready  to  take  that  plunge  into  it  upon  which  Monsieur 
Gabelle  had  resolved  !  But,  the  friendly  dawn  appearing  at 
last,  and  the  rush-candles  of  the  village  guttering  out,  the 
people  happily  dispersed,  and  Monsieur  Gabelle  came  down 
bringing  his  life  with  him  for  that  while. 

Within  a  hundred  miles,  and  in  the  light  of  other  fires, 
there  were  other  functionaries  less  fortunate,  that  night  and 
other  nights,  whom  the  rising  sun  found  hanging  across  once 
peaceful  streets,  where  they  had  been  born  and  bred  ;  also, 
there  are  other  villagers  and  townspeople  less  fortunate  than 
the  mender  of  roads  and  his  fellows,  upon  whom  the  func- 
tionaries and  soldiery  turned  with  success,  and  whom  they 


DRAWN  TO  THE  LOADSTONE  ROCK. 


Strung  up  in  their  turn.  But,  the  fierce  figures  were  steadily- 
wending  East,  West,  North,  and  South,  be  that  as  it  would  ; 
and  whosoever  hung,  fire  burned.  The  altitude  of  the  gal- 
lows that  would  turn  to  water  and  quench  it,  no  function- 
•^ry,  by  any  stretch  of  mathematics,  was  able  to  calculate  sue 
cessfully. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

^  DRAWN  TO  THE  LOADSTONE  ROCK. 

In  such  risings  of  fire  and  risings  of  sea — the  firm  earth 
shaken  by  the  rushes  of  an  angry  ocean  which  had  now  no 
ebb,  but  was  always  on  the  flow,  higher  and  higher,  to  the 
terror  and  wonder  of  the  beholders  on  the  shore — three  years 
of  tempest  were  consumed.  Three  more  birthdays  of  little 
Lucie  had  been  woven  by  the  golden  thread  into  the  peaceful 
tissue  of  the  life  of  her  home. 

Many  a  night  and  many  a  day  had  its  inmates  listened  to 
the  echoes  in  the  corner,  with  hearts  that  failed  them  when 
they  heard  the  thronging  feet.  For,  the  footsteps  had  be- 
come to  their  minds  as  the  footsteps  of  a  people,  tumultuous 
under  a  red  flag  and  with  their  country  declared  in  danger, 
changed  into  wild  beasts,  by  terrible  enchantment  long  per- 
sisted in. 

Monseigneur,  as  a  class,  had  dissociated  himself  from  the 
phenomenon  of  his  not  being  appreciated  :  of  his  being  so 
little  wanted  in  France,  as  to  incur  considerable  danger  of 
receiving  his  dismissal  from  it,  and  this  life  together.  Like 
the  fabled  rustic  who  raised  the  Devil  with  infinite  pains,  and 
was  so  terrified  at  the  sight  of  him  that  he  could  ask  the 
Enemy  no  question,  but  immediately  fled  ;  so,  Monseigneur, 
after  boldly  reading  the  Lord's  Prayer  backwards  for  a  great 
number  of  years,  and  performing  many  other  potent  spells  for 
compelling  the  Evil  One,  no  sooner  beheld  him  in  his  terrors 
than  he  took  to  his  noble  heels. 

The  shining  BulFs  Eye  of  the  Court  was  gone,  or  it  would 
have  been  the  mark  for  a  hurricane  of  national  bullets.  It 
had  never  been  a  good  eye  to  see  with — had  long  had  the 


220 


A  TALK  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


mote  in  it  of  Lucifer's  pride,  Sardanapalus's  luxury,  and  a 
mole's  blindness — but  it  had  dropped  out  and  was  gone. 
The  Court,  from  that  exclusive  inner  circle  to  its  outermost 
rotten  ring  of  intrigue,  corruption,  and  dissimulation,  was  all 
gone  together.  Royalty  was  gone  ;  had  been  besieged  in  its 
Palace  and  "  suspended,"  when  the  last  tidings  came  over. 

The  August  of  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
ninety-two  was  come,  and  Monseigneur  was  by  this  time 
scattered  far  and  wide. 

As  was  natural,  the  head-quarters  and  great  gathering- 
place  of  Monseigneur,  in  London,  was  Tellson's  Bank.  Spirits 
are  supposed  to  haunt  the  places  where  their  bodies  most  re- 
sorted, and  Monseigneur  without  a  guinea  haunted  the  spot 
where  his  guineas  used  to  be.  Moreover,  it  was  the  spot  to 
which  such  French  intelligence  as  was  most  to  be  relied  upon, 
came  quickest.  Again  :  Tellson's  was  a  munificent  house, 
and  extended  great  liberality  to  old  customers  who  had  fallen 
from  their  high  estate.  Again  :  those  nobles  who  had  seen 
the  coming  storm  in  time,  and  anticipating  plunder  or  con- 
fiscation, had  made  provident  remittances  to  Tellson's,  were 
always  to  be  heard  of  there  by  their  needy  brethren.  To 
which  it  must  be  added  that  every  new  comer  from  France 
reported  himself  and  his  tidings  at  Tellson's,  almost  as  a 
matter  of  course.  For  such  variety  of  reasons,  Tellson's  was 
at  that  time,  as  to  French  intelligence,  a  kind  of  High  Ex- 
change j  and  this  was  so  well  known  to  the  public,  and  the 
inquiries  made  there  were  in  consequence  so  numerous,  that 
Tellson's  sometimes  wrote  the  latest  news  out  in  a  line  or  so 
and  posted  it  in  the  Bank  windows,  for  all  who  ran  through 
Temple  Bar  to  read. 

On  a  steaming,  misty  afternoon,  Mr.  Lorry  sat  at  his  desk, 
and  Charles  Darnay  stood  leaning  on  it,  talking  with  him  in 
a  low  voice.  The  penitential  den  once  set  apart  for  inter- 
views with  the  House,  was  now  the  news-Exchange,  and  was 
filled  to  overflowing.  It  was  within  half  an  hour  or  so  of  the 
time  of  closing. 

"  But,  although  you  are  the  youngest  man  that  ever  lived," 
said  Charles  Darnay,  rather  hesitating,  "  I  must  still  suggest 
to  you— — '^ 

"  I  understand.    That  I  am  too  old  ?  "  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

"  Unsettled  weather,  a  long  journey,  uncertain  means  of 
travelling,  a  disorganized  country,  a  city  that  may  not  be  even 
safe  for  you." 


BRAWN  TO  THE  LOADSTONE  ROCK. 


221 


"My  dear  Charles/'  said  Mr.  Lorry,  with  cheerful  con- 
fidence, "  you  touch  some  of  the  reasons  for  my  going  :  not 
for  my  staying  away.  It  is  safe  enough  for  me  ;  nobody  will 
care  to  interfere  with  an  old  fellow  of  hard  upon  fourscore 
when  there  are  so  many  people  there  much  better  w^orth  inter- 
fering with.  As  to  its  being  a  disorganized  city,  if  it  were  not 
a  disorganized  city  there  would  be  no  occasion  to  send  some- 
body from  our  House  here  to  our  House  there,  who  knows 
the  city  and  the  business,  of  old,  and  is  in  Tellson's  con- 
fidence. As  to  the  uncertain  travelling,  the  long  journey,  and 
the  winter  weather,  if  I  were  not  prepared  to  submit  myself 
to  a  few  inconveniences  for  the  sake  of  Tellson's,  after  all 
these  years,  who  ought  to  be  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  were  going  myself,''  said  Charles  Darnay,  some- 
what restlessly,  and  like  one  thinking  aloud. 

"  Indeed  !    You  are  a  pretty  fellow  to  object  and  advise  !  " 
exclaimed  Mr.  Lorry.    "  You  wish  you  were  going  yourself 
And  you  a  Frenchman  born  ?    You  are  a  wise  counsellor." 

My  dear  Mr.  Lorry,  it  is  because  I  am  a  Frenchman 
born,  that  the  thought  (which  I  did  not  mean  to  utter  here, 
however)  has  passed  through  my  mind  often.  One  cannot 
help  thinking,  having  had  some  sympathy  for  the  miserable 
people,  and  having  abandoned  something  to  them,"  he  spoke 
here  in  his  former  thoughtful  manner,  "  that  one  might  be 
listened  to,  and  might  have  the  power  to  persuade  to  some 
restraint.  Only  last  night,  after  you  had  left  us,  when  I  was 
talking  to  Lucie  " 

"  When  you  were  talking  to  Lucie,"  Mr.  Lorry  repeated. 
"  Yes.  I  wonder  you  are  not  ashamed  to  mention  the  name 
of  Lucie  !  Wishing  you  were  going  to  France  at  this  time  of 
day  ! " 

"  However,  I  am  not  going,"  said  Charles  Darnay,  with  a 
smile.    "  It  is  more  to  the  purpose  that  you  say  you  are." 

"  And  I  am,  in  plain  reality.  The  truth  is,  my  dear 
Charles,"  Mr.  Lorry  glanced  at  the  distant  House,  and 
lowered  his  voice,  "  you  can  have  no  conception  of  the  diffi- 
culty with  which  our  business  is  transacted,  and  of  the  peril 
in  which  our  books  and  papers  over  yonder  are  involved. 
The  Lord  above  knows  what  the  compromising  consequences 
would  be  to  numbers  of  people,  if  some  of  our  documents 
w^ere  seized  or  destroyed  ;  and  they  might  be,  at  any  time, 
you  know,  for  who  can  say  that  Pai»is  is  not  set  a-fire  to-day, 
or  sacked  to-morrow  !    Now,  a  judicious  selection  from  thesQ 


222 


A  TALK  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


with  the  least  possible  delay,  and  the  burying  of  them,  oi 
othervvise  getting  oi  them  out  of  harm's  way,  is  within  the 
power  (without  loss  of  precious  time)  of  scarcely  any  one  but 
myself,  if  any  one.  And  shall  1  hang  back,  when  Tellson's 
knows  this  and  says  this  —  Tellson's,  whose  bread  I  have 
eaten  these  sixty  years — because  I  am  a  little  stiff  about  the 
joints  ?  Why,  I  am  a  bov,  sir,  to  half  a  dozen  old  codgers 
here  1 

How  I  admire  the  gallantrj'  of  your  youthful  spirit,  Mr, 
Lorry/* 

"  Tut  I  Nonsense,  sir  ! — And,  my  dear  Charles,"  said  Mr 
Lorry,  glancing  at  the  Ifouse  again,  "you  are  to  remember, 
that  getting  things  out  of  Paris  at  this  present  time,  no  matter 
what  things,  is  next  to  an  impossibility.  Papers  and  precious 
matters  were  this  very  day  brought  to  us  here  (I  speak  in 
strict  confidence ;  it  is  not  business-like  to  whisper  it,  even  to 
you),  by  the  strongest  bearers  you  can  imagine,  every  one  of 
whom  had  his  head  hanging  on  by  a  single  hair  as  he  passed 
the  barriers.  At  another  time,  our  parcels  would  come  and 
go,  as  easily  as  in  business-like  Old  England  ;  but  now,  every- 
thing is  stopped/' 

"  And  do  you  really  go  to-night  ? " 

"  I  really  go  to-night,  for  the  case  has  become  too  pressing 
to  admit  oi  delay.'* 

And  do  you  take  no  one  with  you  ?  '* 

"All  sorts  of  people  have  been  proposed  to  me,  but  I  will 
have  nothing  to  say  to  any  of  them.  I  intend  to  take  Jerry. 
Jerry  has  been  my  body-guard  on  Sunday  nights  for  a  long 
time  past,  and  I  am  used  to  him.  Nobody  will  suspect  Jerry 
of  being  anything  but  an  English  bull-dog,  or  of  having  any 
design  in  his  head  but  to  fly  at  anybody  who  touches  his 
master/' 

"  I  must  say  again  that  I  heartily  admire  your  gallantry 
and  youthfulness." 

I  must  say  again,  nonsense,  nonsense  !  When  I  have 
executed  this  little  commission,  I  shall,  perhaps,  accept  Tell 
son's  proposal  to  retire  and  live  at  my  ease.  Time  enough^ 
then,  to  think  about  growing  old." 

This  dialogue  had  taken  place  at  Mr.  Lorry's  usual  desk, 
with  Monseigneur  swarming  within  a  yard  or  two  of  it,  boast 
ful  of  what  he  would  do  to  avenge  himself  on  the  rascal-peo- 
ple before  long.  It  was  <oo  much  the  way  of  Monseigneur 
under  his  reverses  as  a  refugee,  and  it  was  much  too  much 


DRAWN  TO  THE  LOADSTONE  ROCK. 


223 


^,he  way  of  native  British  orthodoxy,  to  talk  of  this  terrible 
Revolution  as  if  it  were  the  one  only  harvest  ever  known 
under  the  skies  that  had  not  been  sown — as  if  nothing  had 
ever  been  done,  that  had  led  to  it — as  if  observers  of  the 
wretched  millions  in  France,  and  of  the  misused  and  perverted 
resources  that  should  have  made  them  prosperous,  had  not 
seen  it  inevitably  coming,  years  before,  and  had  not  in  plain 
words  recorded  what  they  saw.  Such  vaporing,  combined 
with  the  extravagant  plots  of  Monseigneur  for  the  restoration 
of  a  state  of  things  that  had  utterly  exhausted  itself,  and  worn 
out  Heaven  and  earth  as  well  as  itself,  was  hard  to  be  endured 
without  some  remonstrance  by  any  sane  man  who  knew  the 
truth.  And  it  was  such  vaporing  all  about  his  ears,  like  a 
troublesome  confusion  of  blood  in  his  own  head,  added  to  a 
latent  uneasiness  in  his  mind,  which  had  already  made  Charles 
Darnay  restless,  and  which  still  kept  him  so. 

Among  the  talkers,  was  Stryver,  of  the  King's  Bench  Bar, 
far  on  his  w^ay  to  state  promotion,  and,  therefore,  loud  on  the 
theme  :  broaching  to  Monseigneur,  his  devices  for  blowing  the 
people  up  and  exterminating  them  from  the  face  of  the  earth, 
and  doing  without  them  :  and  for  accomplishing  many  similar 
objects  akin  in  their  nature  to  the  abolition  of  eagles  by 
sprinkling  salt  on  the  tails  of  the  race.  Him,  Darnay  heard 
with  a  particular  feeling  of  objection ;  and  Darnay  stood 
divided  between  going  away  that  he  might  hear  no  more,  and 
remaining  to  interpose  his  word,  when  the  thing  that  was  to 
be,  went  on  to  shape  itself  out. 

The  House  approached  Mr.  Lorry,  and  laying  a  soiled  and 
unopened  letter  before  him,  asked  if  he  had  yet  discovered 
any  traces  of  the  person  to  whom  it  was  addressed  ?  The 
House  laid  the  letter  down  so  close  to  Darnay  that  he  saw  the 
direction — the  more  quickly  because  it  w^as  his  OA^n  right 
name.    The  address,  turned  into  English,  ran  : 

''Very  pressing.  To  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis  St. 
Evr^^onde,  of  France.  Confided  to  the  cares  of  Messrs. 
Tellson  and  Co.,  Bankers,  London,  England.^' 

On  the  marriage  morning.  Dr.  Manette  had  made  it  his 
one  urgent  and  express  request  to  Charles  Darnay,  that  the 
secret  of  this  name  should  be — unless  he,  the  Doctor,  dis- 
solved the  obligation — kept  inviolate  between  them.  Nobody 
else  knev/  it  to  be  his  name  ;  his  own  wife  had  no  suspicion  of 
the  fact ;  Mr.  Lorry  could  have  none. 

''No,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  in  reply  to  the  House;  "J  have 


i24 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


referred  it,  I  think,  to  everybody  now  here,  and  no  one  can 
tell  me  where  this  gentleman  is  to  be  found." 

The  hands  of  the  clock  verging  upon  the  hour  of  closing 
the  Bank,  there  was  a  general  set  of  the  current  of  talkers 
past  Mr.  Lorry's  desk.  He  held  the  letter  out  inquiringly ; 
and  Monseigneur  looked  at  it,  in  the  person  of  this  plotting 
and  indignant  refugee  ;  and  This,  That,  and  The  Other,  all 
had  something  disparaging  to  say,  in  French  or  in  Knglish, 
( onremina  the  Marquis  who  was  not  to  be  found. 

Nephew,  I  believe — but  in  any  case  degenerate  succes- 
sor— of  the  polished  Marquis  who  was  murdered,"  said  one. 
^'  Happy  to  say,  I  never  knew  him." 

A  craven  who  abandoned  his  post,"  said  another — this 
Monseigneur  had  been  got  out  of  Paris,  legs  uppermost  and 
half  suffocated,  in  a  load  of  hay — "  some  years  ago." 

"  Infected  with  the  new  doctrines,"  said  a  third,  eyeing 
the  direction  through  his  glass  in  passing  ;  "  set  himself  in 
opposition 'to  the  last  Marquis,  abandoned  the  estates  when 
he  inherited  them,  and  left  them  to  the  ruffian  herd.  They 
will  recompense  him  now,  I  hope,  as  he  deserves." 

^'  Hey  ?  "  cried  the  blatant  Stryver.  Did  he  though  ? 
Is  that  the  sort  of  fellow  ?  Let  us  look  at  his  infamous  name. 
D— n  the  fellow  !  " 

Damay,  unable  to  restrain  himself  any  longer,  touched  Mr. 
Stryver  on  the  shoulder,  and  said  : 
I  know  the  fellow." 

"  Do  you,  by  Jupiter?  "  said  Stryver.    "  I  am  sorry  for  it.'' 

"  Why  ! " 

"  Why,  Mr.  Darnay  1  D'ye  hear  what  he  did  ?  Don't  ask, 
why,  in  these  times." 

"  But  I  do  ask  why  ?  " 

"  Then  I  tell  you  again,  Mr.  Darnay,  I  am  sorry  for  it.  I 
am  sorry  to  hear  you  putting  any  such  extraordinary  questions. 
Here  is  a  fellow,  who,  infected  by  the  most  pestilent  and 
blasphemous  code  of  devilry  that  ever  was  knov;n,  abandoned 
his  property  to  the  vilest  scum  of  the  earth  that  ever  did 
murder  by  wholesale,  and  you  ask  me  V/hy  I  am  sorry  that  a 
man  who  instructs  youth  knows  him  ?  Well,  but  I'll  answer 
you.  I  am  sorry  because  I  believe  there  is  contamination  in 
^uch  a  scoundrel.    That's  why." 

Mindful  of  the  secret,  Darnay  with  great  difficulty  checked 


DRA  IVN  TO  THE  LOADSTONE  ROCK, 


225 


himself,  and  said  :  "  You  may  not  understand  the  gentle- 
man/' 

I  understand  how  to  put  you  in  a  corner,  Mr.  Darnay,*' 
said  Bully  Stryver,  "and  I'll  do  it.  If  this  fellow  is  a  gentie- 
man,  I  dorCt  understand  him.  You  may  tell  him  so,  with  ray 
compliments.  You  may  also  tell  him  from  me,  that,  after 
abandoning  his  worldly  goods  and  position  to  this  butcherly 
mob,  I  wonder  he  is  not  at  the  head  of  them.  But,  no. 
gentlemen,''  said  Stryver,  looking  all  round,  and  snapping 
his  fingers,  "  I  know  something  of  human  nature,  and  i  teii 
you  that  you'll  never  find  a  fellow  like  this  fellow,  trusting 
himself  to  the  mercies  of  such  precious  proteges.  No,  gentle- 
men ;  he'll  always  show  'em  a  clean  pair  of  heels  very  early 
in  the  scuffle,  and  sneak  away." 

With  those  words,  and  a  final  snap  of  his  fingers,  Mr. 
Stryver  shouldered  himself  into  Fleet-street,  amidst  the  gen- 
eral approbation  of  his  hearers.  Mr.  Lorry  and  Charles 
Darnay  were  left  alone  at  the  desk,  in  the  general  departure 
from  the  Bank. 

"  Will  you  take  charge  of  the  letter  1  "  said  Mr.  Lorry. 
You  know  where  to  deliver  it  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  Will  you  undertake  to  explain,  that  we  suppose  it  to  have 
been  addressed  here,  on  the  chance  of  our  knowing  where  to 
forward  it,  and  that  it  has  been  here  some  time  " 

"  I  will  do  so.    Do  you  start  for  Paris  from  here  ?  " 

"  From  here  at  eight." 

"  I  will  come  back,  to  see  you  off." 

Very  ill  at  ease  with  himself,  and  with  Stryver  and  most 
other  men,  Darnay  made  the  best  of  his  way  into  the  quiet  of 
the  Temple  opened  the  letter,  and  read  it.  These  were  its 
contents : 

"  Prison  of  the  Abbaye,  Paris 
June  21,  1792. 

"Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis. 

"  After  having  long  been  in  danger  of  my  life  at  the  hands 
of  the  village,  I  have  been  seized,  with  great  violence  and  in- 
dignity, and  brought  a  long  journey  on  foot  to  Paris.  On  the 
road  1  have  suffered  a  great  deal.  Nor  is  that  all ;  my  house 
has  been  destroyed — razed  to  the  ground. 

"  The  crime  for  which  I  am  imprisoned.  Monsieur  hereto- 
fore the  Marquis,  and  for  which  I  shall  be  summoned  before 


226 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


the  tribunal,  and  shall  lose  my  life  (without  your  so  generous 
help),  is,  they  tell  me,  treason  against  the  majesty  of  the  peo- 
ple, in  that  I  have  acted  against  them  for  an  emigrant.  It  is 
in  vain  I  represent  that  I  have  acted  for  them,  and  not  against, 
according  to  your  commands.  It  is  in  vain  I  represent  that 
before  the  sequestration  of  emigrant  property,  I  had  remitted 
the  imposts  they  had  ceased  to  pay  ;  that  I  had  collected  no 
rent;  that  I  had  had  recourse  to  no  process.  The  only  re- 
sponse is,  that  I  have  acted  for  an  emigrant,  and  where  is  that 
emigrant  ? 

"  Ah !  most  gracious  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis, 
where  is  that  emigrant  ?  I  cry  in  my  sleep  where  is  he  I 
demand  of  Heaven,  will  he  not  come  to  deliver  me  ?  No 
answer.  Ah  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis,  I  send  my 
desolate  cry  across  the  sea,  hoping  it  may  perhaps  reach  your 
ears  through  the  great  bankof  Tillson  known  at  Paris  ! 

"  For  the  love  of  Heaven,  of  justice,  of  generosity,  of  the 
honor  of  your  noble  name,  I  supplicate  you,  Monsieur  hereto- 
fore the  Marquis,  to  succor  and  release  me.  My  fault  is,  that 
I  have  been  true  to  you.  Oh  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis, 
I  pray  you  be  you  true  to  me  ! 

"  From  this  prison  here  of  horror,  whence  I  every  hour 
tend  nearer  and  nearer  to  destruction,  I  send  you,  Monsieur 
heretofore  the  Marquis,  the  assurance  of  my  dolorous  »nd  un- 
happy service. 

"  Your  afHicted, 

"  Gabelle.^' 

The  latent  uneastness  in  Darnay's  mind  was  roused  to  vig- 
orous life  by  this  letter.  The  peril  of  an  old  servant  and  a 
good  one,  whose  only  crime  was  fidelity  to  himself  and  his 
family,  stared  him  so  reproachfully  in  the  face,  that  as  he  walked 
to  and  fro  in  the  Temple  considering  what  to  do,  he  almost 
hid  his  face  from  the  passers-by. 

He  knew  very  well,  that  in  his  horror  of  the  deed  which 
had  culminated  the  bad  deeds  and  bad  reputation  of  the  old 
family  house,  in  his  resentful  suspicions  of  his  uncle,  and  in 
the  aversion  with  which  his  conscience  regarded  the  crumbling 
fabric  that  he  was  supposed  to  uphold,  he  had  acted  imper- 
fectly. He  knew  very  well,  that  in  his  love  for  Lucie,  his  re- 
nunciation of  his  social  place,  though  by  no  means  nev/  to  his 
own  mind  had  been  hurried  and  incomplete.  He  knew  that 
he  ought  to  have  systematically  worked  it  out  and  supervised 


DRAWN  TO  THE  LOADSTONE  ROCK. 


227 


it,  and  that  he  had  meant  to  do  it,  and  that  it  had  never  been 
done. 

The  happiness  of  his  own  chosen  EngHsh  home,  the  neces- 
sity of  being  always  actively  employed,  the  swift  changes  and 
troubles  of  the  time  which  had  followed  on  one  another  so 
fast,  that  the  events  of  this  week  annihilated  the  immature 
plans  of  last  week,  and  the  events  of  the  week  following  made 
all  new  again ;  he  knew  very  well,  that  to  the  force  of  these 
circumstances  he  had  yielded  : — not  without  disquiet,  but  still 
without  continuous  and  accumulating  resistance.  That  he 
had  watched  the  times  for  a  time  of  action,  and  that  they  had 
shifted  and  struggled  until  the  time  had  gone  by,  and  the  no- 
bility were  trooping  from  France  by  every  highway  and  byway, 
and  their  property  was  in  course  of  confiscation  and  destruc- 
tion,  and  their  very  names  were  blotting  out,  was  as  v/ell 
known  to  himself  as  it  could  be  to  any  new  authority  in  France 
that  might  impeach  him  for  it. 

But,  he  had  oppressed  no  man,  he  had  imprisoned  no  man  ; 
he  was  so  far  from  having,  harshly  exacted  payment  of  his  dues, 
that  he  had  relinquished  them  of  his  own  will,  thrown  himself 
on  a  world  with  no  favor  in  it,  won  his  own  private  place  there, 
and  earned  his  own  bread.  Monsieur  Gabelle  had  held  the 
impoverished  and  involved  estate  on  written  instructions,  to 
spare  the  people,  to  give  them  what  little  there  was  to  give — 
such  fuel  as  the  heavy  creditors  would  let  them  have  in  the 
winter,  and  such  produce  as  could  be  saved  from  the  sam.e 
grip  in  the  summer — and  no  doubt  he  had  put  the  facr  in  plea 
and  proof,  for  his  own  safety,  so  that  it  could  not  but  appear 
now. 

This  favored  the  desperate  resolution  Charles  Darn  ay  had 
begun  to  make,  that  he  would  go  to  Paris. 

Yes.  Like  the  mariner  in  the  old  story,  the  winds  and 
streams  had  driven  him  within  the  influence  of  the  Load- 
stone Rock,  and  it  was  drawing  him  to  itself,  and  he  must  go. 
Everything  that  arose  before  his  mind  drifted  him  on,  faster 
and  faster,  more  and  more  steadily,  to  the  terrible  attraction. 
His  latent  uneasiness  had  been,  that  bad  aims  were  being 
worked  out  in  his  own  unhappy  land  by  bad  instruments,  and 
that  he  who  could  not  fail  to  know  that  he  was  better  than 
they,  was  not  there,  trying  to  do  something  to  stay  bloodshed, 
and  assert  the  claims  of  mercy  and  humanity.  With  this  un- 
easiness half  stifled,  and  half  reproaching  him,  he  had  been 
brought  to  the  pointed  comparison  of  himself  with  the  brave 


228 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


old  gentleman  in  whom  duty  was  so  strong ;  upon  that  com* 
parison  (injurious  to  himself)  had  instantly  followed  the  sneers 
of  Monseigneur,  which  had  stung  him  bitterly,  and  those  of 
Stryver,  which  above  all  were  coarse  and  galling,  for  old  rea- 
sons. Upon  those,  had  followed  Gabelle's  letter  :  the  appeal 
of  an  innocent  prisoner,  in  danger  of  death,  to  his  justice, 
honor,  and  good  name. 

His  resolution  was  made.    He  must  go  to  Paris. 

Yes.  The  Loadstone  Rock  was  drawing  him,  and  he  must 
sail  on,  until  he  struck.  He  knew  of  no  rock  ;  he  saw  hardly 
any  danger.  The  intention  with  which  he  had  done  what  he 
had  done,  even  although  he  had  left  it  incomplete,  presented 
it  before  him  in  an  aspect  that  would  be  gratefully  acknowl- 
edged in  France  on  his  presenting  himself  to  assert  it.  Then, 
that  glorious  vision  of  doing  good,  which  is  so  often  the  san- 
guine mirage  of  so  many  good  minds,  arose  before  him,  and 
he  even  saw  himself  in  the  illusion  with  some  influence  to 
guide  this  raging  Revolution  that  was  running  so  fearfully 
wild. 

As  he  walked  to  and  fro  with  his  resolution  made,  he  con- 
sidered that  neither  Lucie  nor  her  father  must  know  of  it  until 
he  was  gone.  Lucie  should  be  spared  the  pain  of  separa- 
tion ;  and  her  father,  always  reluctant  to  turn  his  thoughts 
towards  the  dangerous  ground  of  old,  should  come  to  the 
knowledge  of  the  step,  as  a  step  taken,  and  not  in  the  balance 
of  suspense  and  doubt.  How  much  of  the  incompleteness  of 
his  situation  was  referable  to  her  father,  through  the  painful 
anxiety  to  avoid  reviving  old  associations  of  France  in  his 
mind,  he  did  not  discuss  with  himself.  But,  that  circumstance 
too,  had  had  its  influence  in  his  course. 

He  walked  to  and  fro,  with  thoughts  very  busy,  until  it 
was  time  to  return  to  Tellson's  and  take  leave  of  Mr.  Lorry. 
As  soon  as  he  arrived  in  Paris  he  would  present  himself  to  this 
old  friend,  but  he  must  say  nothing  of  his  intention  now, 

A  carriage  with  post-horses  was  ready  at  the  Bank  dooi, 
and  Jerry  was  booted  and  equipped. 

I  have  delivered  that  letter,"  said  Charles  Darnay 
to  Mr.  Lorry.  "  I  would  not  consent  to  your  being  charged 
with  any  written  answer,  but  perhaps  you  will  take  a  verbal 
one  ?  " 

"  That  I  will,  and  readily,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  "  if  it  is  not 
dangerous." 

Not  at  all.    Though  it  is  to  a  prisoner  in  the  Abbaye." 


DRAWN  TO  THE  LOADSTONE  ROCK. 


229 


"  What  is  his  name  ?  "  said  Mr.  Lorry,  with  his  open 
pocket-book  in  his  hand. 
Gabelle." 

"  Gabelle.  And  what  is  the  message  to  the  unfortunate 
Gabel^e  in  prison  ?  " 

"  Simply,  *  that  he  has  received  the  letter,  and  will 
come.'  • 

"  Any  time  mentioned  \  " 

"  He  will  start  upon  his  journey  to-morrow  night." 

Any  person  mentioned  " 
"  No?' 

He  helped  Mr.  Lorry  to  wrap  himself  in  a  number  of 
coats  and  cloaks,  and  went  out  with  him  from  the  warm  atmos- 
phere of  the  old  Bank,  into  the  misty  air  of  Fleet-street.  "  My 
love  to  Lucie,  and  to  little  Lucie,"  said  Mr.  Lorry  at  parting, 
and  take  precious  care  of  them  till  I  come  back."  Charles 
Darnay  shook  his  head  and  doubtfully  smiled,  as  the  carriage 
rolled  away. 

That  night — it  was  the  fourteenth  of  August — he  sat  up 
late,  and  wrote  two  fervent  letters  ;  one  was  to  Lucie,  explain- 
ing the  strong  obligation  he  was  under  to  go  to  Paris,  and 
showing  her,  at  length,  the  reasons  that  he  had,  for  feeling 
confident  that  he  could  become  involved  in  no  personal 
danger  there  ;  the  other  was  to  the  Doctor,  confiding  Lucie 
and  their  dear  child  to  his  care,  and  dwelling  on  the  same 
topics  with  the  strongest  assurances.  To  both,  he  wTote  that 
he  would  despatch  letters  in  proof  of  his  safety,  immediately 
after  his  arrival. 

It  was  a  hard  day,  that  day  of  being  among  them,  with  the 
first  reservation  of  their  joint  lives  on  his  mind.  It  was  a 
hard  matter  to  preserve  the  innocent  deceit  of  which  they 
were  profoundly  unsuspicious.  But,  an  affectionate  glance  at 
his  wife,  so  happy  and  busy,  made  him  resolute  not  to  tell  her 
what  impended  (he  had  been  half  moved  to  do  it,  so  strange 
it  was  to  him  to  act  in  anything  without  her  quiet  aid),  and 
the  day  passed  quickly.  Early  in  the  evening  he  embraced 
her,  and  her  scarcely  less  dear  namesake,  pretending  that  he 
would  return  by  and  by  (an  imaginary  engagement  took  him 
out,  and  he  had  secreted  a  valise  of  clothes  ready),  and  so  he 
emerged  into  the  heavy  mist  of  the  heavy  streets,  with  a 
heavier  heart. 

The  unseen  force  was  drawing  him  fast  to  itself,  now,  and 
all  the  tides  and  winds  were  setting  straight  and  strong  to- 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


wards  it.  He  left  his  two  letters  with  a  trusty  porter,  to  be 
delivered  half  an  hour  before  midnight,  and  no  sooner  ;  took 
horse  for  Dover  ;  and  began  his  journey.  "  For  the  love  of 
Heaven,  of  justice,  of  generosity,  of  the  honor  of  your  noble 
name  ! was  the  poor  prisoner's  cry  with  which  he  strength- 
ened his  sinking  heart,  as  he  left  all  that  was  dear  on  earth 
behind  him,  and  floated  away  for  the  Loadstone  Rock. 


r:/  SECRET. 


231 


BOOK  THE  THIRD.    THE  TRACK  OF  A 
STORM. 


CHAPTER  L 

IN  SECRET. 

The  traveller  fared  slowly  on  his  way,  who  fared  towards 
Paris  from  England  in  the  autumn  of  the  year  one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  ninety-two.  More  than  enough  of  bad 
roads,  bad  equipages,  and  bad  horses,  he  would  have  en- 
countered to  delay  him,  though  the  fallen  and  unfortunate 
King  of  France  had  been  upon  his  throne  in  all  his  glory ; 
but,  the  changed  times  were  fraught  with  other  obstacles  than 
these.  Every  town-gate  and  village  taxing-house  had  its  band 
of  citizen-patriots,  with  their  national  muskets  in  a  most  explo- 
sive state  of  readiness,  who  stopped  all  comers  and  goers, 
cross-questioned  them,  inspected  their  papers,  looked  for  their 
names  in  lists  of  their  own,  turned  them  back,  or  sent  them 
on,  or  stopped  them  and  laid  them  in  hold,  as  their  capricious 
judgment  or  fancy  deemed  best  for  the  dawning  Republic 
One  and  Indivisible,  of  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or 
Death. 

A  very  few  French  leagues  of  his  journey  were  accom- 
plished, when  Charles  Darnay  began  to  perceive  that  for  him 
along  these  country  roads  there  was  no  hope  of  return  until 
he  should  have  been  declared  a  good  citizen  at  Paris,  What- 
ever might  befall  now,  he  must  on  to  his  journey's  end.  Not 
a  mean  village  closed  upon  him,  not  a  common  barrier 
dropped  across  the  road  behind  him,  but  he  knew  it  to  be 
another  iron  door  in  the  series  that  was  barred  between  him 
and  England.  The  universal  watchfulness  so  encompassed 
him,  that  if  he  had  been  taken  in  a  net,  or  were  being  for- 


232 


A  TALE  OF  TIVO  CITIES, 


warded  to  his  destination  in  a  cage,  he  could  not  have  feit  his 
freedom  more  completely  gone. 

This  universal  watchfulness  not  only  stopped  him  on  the 
highway  twenty  times  in  a  stage,  but  retarded  his  progress 
twenty  times  in  a  day,  by  riding  after  him  and  taking  him 
back,  riding  before  him  and  stopping  him  by  anticipation^ 
riding  with  him  and  keeping  him  in  charge.  He  had  been 
days  upon  his  journey  in  France  alone,  when  he  went  to  bed 
tired  out,  in  a  little  town  on  the  high  road,  still  a  long  way 
from  Paris. 

Nothing  but  the  production  of  the  afflicted  Gabelle's  letter 
from  his  prison  of  the  Abbaye  would  have  got  him  on  so  far. 
His  difficulty  at  the  guard-house  in  this  small  place  liad  been 
such,  that  he  felt  his  journey  to  have  come  to  a  crisis.  And 
he  was,  therefore,  as  little  surprised  as  a  man  could  be,  to  find 
himself  awakened  at  the  small  inn  to  which  he  had  been  re- 
mitted until  morning,  in  the  middle  of  the  night. 

Awakened  by  a  timid  local  functionary  and  three  armed 
patriots  in  rough  red  caps  and  with  pipes  in  their  mouths,  who 
sat  down  on  the  bed. 

"Emigrant,"  said  the  functionary,  "I  am  going  to  send 
you  on  to  Paris,  under  an  escort." 

"  Citizen,  I  desire  nothing  more  than  to  get  to  Paris, 
though  I  could  dispense  with  the  escort." 

Silence ! "  growled  a  red-cap,  striking  at  the  coverlet 
with  the  butt-end  of  his  musket.    "  Peace,  aristocrat !  " 

"  It  is  as  the  good  patriot  says,"  observed  the  timid  func- 
tionary. "  You  are  an  aristocrat,  and  must  have  an  escort — 
and  must  pay  for  it." 

"  I  have  no  choice,"  said  Charles  Darn  ay. 

"  Choice  !  Listen  to  him  !  "  cried  the  same  scowling  red- 
cap. As  if  it  was  not  a  favor  to  be  protected  from  the  lamp- 
iron  ! " 

"  it  is  always  as  the  good  patriot  says,"  observed  the 
functionary.    "  Rise  and  dress  yourself,  emigrant." 

Darnay  complied,  and  was  taken  back  to  the  guard-house, 
where  other  patriots  in  rough  red-caps  were  smoking,  drinking, 
and  sleeping,  by  a  watch-fire.  Here  he  paid  a  heavy  price  for 
his  escort,  and  hence  he  started  with  it  on  the  wet,  wet  roads 
at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

The  escort  were  two  mounted  patriots  in  red  caps  and  tri- 
colored  cockades,  armed  with  national  muskets  and  sabrec, 
who  rode  one  oc  either  side  of  him.    The  escorted  governed 


IN  SECRET, 


233 


his  own  horse,  but  a  loose  line  was  attached  to  the  bridle,  the 
end  of  which  one  of  the  patriots  kept  girded  round  his  wrist. 
In  this  state  they  set  forth  with  the  sharp  rain  driving  in  their 
faces  :  clattering  at  a  heavy  dragoon  trot  over  the  uneven  town 
pavement,  and  out  upon  the  mire-deep  roads.  In  this  state 
they  tra\jersed  without  change,  except  of  horses  and  pace,  all 
the  mire-deep  leagues  that  lay  between  them  and  the  capital. 

They  travelled  in  the  night,  halting  an  hour  or  two  after 
daybreak,  and  lying  by  until  the  twilight  fell.  The  escort 
were  so  wretchedly  clothed,  that  they  twisted  straw  round 
their  bare  legs,  and  thatched  their  ragged  shoulders  to  keep 
the  wet  off.  Apart  from  the  personal  discomfort  of  being  so 
attended,  and  apart  from  such  considerations  of  present 
danger  as  arose  from  one  of  the  patriots  being  chronically 
drunk,  and  carrying  his  musket  very  recklessly,  Charles 
Darnay  did  not  allow  the  restraint  that  was  laid  upon  him  to 
awaken  any  serious  fears  in  his  breast ;  for,  he  reasoned  with 
himself  that  it  could  have  no  reference  to  the  merits  of  an  in- 
dividual case  that  was  not  yet  stated,  and  of  representations, 
confirmable  by  the  prisoner  in  the  AlDbaye,  that  were  not  yet 
made. 

But  wheh  they  came  to  the  town  of  Beauvais — which  they 
did  at  eventide,  when  the  streets  were  filled  with  people — he 
could  not  conceal  from  himself  that  the  aspect  of  affairs  was 
'  very  alarming.  An  ominous  crowd  gathered  to  see  him  dis- 
mount at  the  posting-yard,  and  many  voices  called  out  loudly, 
"  Down  with  the  emigrant !  " 

He  stopped  in  the  act  of  swinging  himself  out  of  his 
saddle,  and,  resuming  it  as  his  safest  place,  said  : 

"  Emigrant,  my  friends  !  Do  you  not  see  me  here,  in 
France,  of  my  own  will  ? 

"  You  are  a  cursed  emigrant,"  cried  a  farrier,  making  at 
him  in  a  furious  manner,  through  the  press,  hammer  in  hand  ; 
^'  and  you  are  a  cursed  aristocrat !  " 

The  postmaster  interposed  himself  between  this  man  and 
the  rider's  bridle  (at  which  he  was  evidently  making),  and 
soothingly  said,  "  Let  him  be  ;  let  him  be  !  He  will  be  judged 
at  Paris." 

Judged !  "  repeated  the  farrier,  swinging  his  hammer 
"  Ay  !  and  condemned  as  a  traitor."  At  this  the  crow(3^ 
roared  approval. 

Checking  the  postmaster,  who  was  for  turning  his  horse's 
head  to  the  yard  (the  drunken  patriot  sat  composedly  in  his 


234 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


saddle  looking  on,  with  the  line  round  his  wrist),  Darnay  said 
as  soon  as  he  could  make  his  voice  heard  : 

"Friends,  you  deceive  yourself,  or  you  are  deceived.  I 
am  not  a  traitor.'' 

"  He  lies  !  "  cried  the  smith.  "  He  is  a  traitor  since  the 
decree.  His  life  is  forfeit  to  the  people.  His  curbed  life  is 
not  his  own  !  " 

At  the  instant  when  Darnay  saw  a  rush  in  the  eyes  of  the 
crowd,  which  another  instant  would  have  brought  upon  him, 
the  postmaster  turned  his  horse  into  the  yard,  the  escort  rode 
in  close  upon  his  horse's  flanks,  and  the  postmaster  shut 
and  barred  the  crazy  double  gates.  The  farrier  struck  a  blow 
upon  them  with  his  hammer,  and  the  crowd  groaned  ;  but,  no 
more  was  done. 

"  What  is  this  decree  that  the  smith  spoke  of  ? "  Darnay 
asked  the  postmaster,  when  he  had  thanked  him,  and  stood 
beside  him  in  the  yard. 

"Truly,  a  decree  for  selling  the  property  of  emigrants." 

"  When  passed  t  " 

"  On  the  fourteenth." 

"  The  day  I  left  England  !  " 

"  Everybody  says  it  is  but  one  of  several,  and  that  there 
will  be  others — if  there  are  not  already — banishing  all  emi- 
grants, and  condemning  all  to  death  who  return.  That  is  what 
he  meant  when  he  said  your  life  was  not  your  own." 

"  But  there  are  no  such  decrees  yet  ?  " 

"  What  do  I  know !  "  said  the  postmaster,  shrugging  his 
shoulders  ;  "  there  may  be,  or  there  will  be.  It  is  all  the 
same.    What  would  you  have  ?  " 

They  rested  on  some  straw  in  a  loft  until  the  middle  of  the 
night,  and  then  rode  forward  again  when  all  the  town  was 
asleep.  Among  the  many  wild  changes  observable  on  fami- 
liar things  which  made  this  wild  ride  unreal,  not  the  least  was 
the  seeming  rarity  of  sleep.  After  long  and  lonely  spurring 
over  dreary  roads,  they  would  come  to  a  cluster  of  poor  cot- 
tages, not  steeped  in  darkness,  but  all  glittering  with  lights, 
and  would  find  the  people,  in  a  ghostly  manner  in  the  dead 
of  the  night,  circling  hand  in  hand  round  a  shrivelled  tree  d. 
Liberty,  or  all  drawn  up  together  singing  a  Liberty  song. 
Happily,  however,  there  was  sleep  in  Beauvais  that  night  to 
help  them  out  of  it,  and  they  passed  on  once  more  into  soli- 
tude and  loneliness  ;  jingling  through  the  untimely  cold  and 
wet,  among  impoverished  fields  that  had  yielded  no  fruits  of 


IN  SECRET. 


235 


the  earth  that  year,  diversified  by  the  blackened  remains  of 
burnt  houses,  and  by  the  sudden  emergence  from  ambuscade, 
and  sharp  reining  up  across  their  way,  of  patriot  patrols  on 
the  watch  on  all  the  roads. 

Daylight  at  last  found  them  before  the  wall  of  Paris.  The 
barrier  was  closed  and  strongly  guarded  w^hen  they  rode  up 
to  it. 

"  Where  are  the  papers  of  this  prisoner  ? "  demanded  a 
resolute-looking  man  in  authority,  who  was  summoned  out  by 
the  guard. 

Naturally  struck  by  the  disagreeable  word,  Charles  Darnay 
requested  the  speaker  to  take  notice  that  he  was  a  free  travel- 
ler and  French  citizen,  in  charge  of  an  escort  which  the  dis- 
turbed state  of  the  country  had  imposed  upon  him,  and  which 
he  had  paid  for. 

"Where,"  repeated  the  same  personage,  without  taking 
any  heed  of  him  wdiatever,  "  are  the  papers  of  this  prisoner  ?  " 

The  drunken  patriot  had  them  in  his  cap,  and  produced 
them.  Casting  his  eyes  over  Gabelle's  letter,  the  same  per- 
sonage in  authority  showed  some  disorder  and  surprise,  and 
looked  at  Darnay  with  a  close  attention. 

He  left  escort  and  escorted  without  saying  a  word,  how- 
ever, and  went  into  the  guard-room  ;  meanwhile,  they  sat  upon 
their  horses  outside  the  gate.  Looking  about  him  while  in 
this  state  of  suspense,  Charles  Darnay  observed  that  the  gate 
was  held  by  a  mixed  guard  of  soldiers  and  patriots,  the  latter 
far  outnumbering  the  former ;  and  that  while  ingress  into  the 
city  for  peasants'  carts  bringing  in  supplies,  and  for  similar 
traffic  and  traffickers,  was  easy  enough,  egress,  even  for  the 
homeliest  people  was  very  difficult.  A  numerous  medley  of 
men  and  women,  not  to  mention  beasts  and  vehicles  of  vari- 
ous sorts,  Vv^as  waiting  to  issue  forth  ;  but,  the  previous  identi- 
fication was  so  strict,  that  they  filtered  through  the  barrier 
very  slowly.  Some  of  these  people  knew  their  turn  for  ex- 
amxination  to  be  so  far  off,  that  they  lay  down  on  the  ground 
to  sleep  or  smoke,  while  others  talked  together,  or  loitered 
about.  The  red  cap  and  tricolor  cockade  were  universal,  both 
among  men  and  women. 

When  he  had  sat  in  his  saddle  some  half-hour,  taking  note 
of  these  things,  Darnay  found  himself  confronted  by  the  same 
man  in  authority,  who  directed  the  guard  to  open  the  barrier. 
Then  he  delivered  to  the  escort,  drunk  and  sober,  a  receipt 
for  the  escorted,  and  requested  him  to  dismount.    He  tlid  so  ; 


236 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


and  the  two  patriots,  leading  his  tired  horse,  turned  and  rode 
away  without  entering  the-  city. 

He  accompanied  his  conductor  into  a  guard-room,  smelling 
of  common  wine  and  tobacco,  where  certain  soldiers  and  pat- 
riots, asleep  and  awake,  drunk  and  sober,  and  in  various 
neutral  states  between  sleeping  and  waking,  drunkenness  and 
sobriety,  were  standing  and  lying  about.  The  light  in  the 
guard-house,  half  derived  from  the  waning  oil-lamps  of  the 
night,  and  half  from  the  overcast  day,  was  in  a  correspond- 
ingly uncertain  condition.  Some  registers  were  lying  open 
on  a  desk,  and  an  officer  of  a  coarse,  dark  aspect,  presided 
over  these. 

"  Citizen  Defarge,'^  said  he  to  Darnay's  conductor,  as  he 
took  a  slip  of  paper  to  write  on.  "  Is  this  the  emigrant  Evre- 
monde  ?  " 

"  This  is  the  man." 

"  Your  age,  Evremonde  ?  " 

"  Thirty-seven." 

"  Married,  Evremonde  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Where  married  ?  " 
"  In  England." 

"  Without  doubt.    Where  is  your  wife,  Evremonde  ?  " 
"In  England." 

"  Without  doubt.  You  are  consigned,  Evremonde,  to  the 
prison  of  La  Force." 

"Just  Heaven  !  "  exclaimed  Darnay.  "  Under  what  law, 
and  for  what  oifence  ?  " 

The  officer  looked  up  from  his  slip  of  paper  for  a  moment. 

"  We  have  new  laws,  Evremonde,  and  new  offences,  since 
you  were  here."  He  said  it  with  a  hard  smile,  and  went  on 
writing. 

1  entreat  you  to  observe  that  I  have  come  here  volun- 
tarily, in  response  to  that  written  appeal  for  a  fellow-country- 
man which  lies  before  you.  I  demand  no  more  than  the  op- 
portunity to  do  so  without  delay.    Is  not  that  my  right  ?  " 

"  Emigrants  have  no  rights,  Evremonde,"  was  the  stolid 
reply.  The  officer  wrote  until  he  had  finished,  read  over  to 
himself  what  he  had  written,  sanded  it,  and  handed  it  to  De- 
farge,  with  the  words  "In  secret." 

Defarge  motioned  with  the  paper  to  the  prisoner  that  he 
must  accompany  him.  The  prisoner  obeyed,  and  a  guard  of 
two  armed  patriots  attended  them. 


IN  SECRTn\ 


2.37 


"Is  it  you,"  said  Defarge,  in  a  low  voice,  as  they  went 
down  the  guard-house  steps  and  turned  into  Paris,  "  who  mar- 
ried the  daughter  of  Doctor  Manette,  once  a  prisoner  in  the 
Bastile  that  is  no  more?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Darnay,  looking  at  him  with  surprise. 

"  My  name  is  Defarge,  and  I  keep  a  wine-shop  in  the 
Quarter  Saint  Antoine.    Possibly  you  have  heard  of  me." 

My  wife  came  to  your  house  to  reclaim  her  father  ? 
Yes  !  " 

The  word  "  wife  "  seemed  to  serve  as  a  gloomy  remindei 
to  Defarge,  to  say  with  sudden  impatience,  "  In  the  name  of 
that  sharp  female  newly-born,  and  called  La  Guillotine,  why 
did  you  come  to  France  ?  " 

"  You  heard  me  say  why,  a  minute  ago.  Do  you  not  be- 
lieve it  is  the  truth  ?  " 

"  A  bad  truth. for  you^il* said  Defarge,  speaking  with  knit- 
ted brows,  and  looking  straight  before  him. 

"  Indeed  I  am  lost  here.  All  here  is  so  unprecedented, 
so  changed,  so  sudden  and  unfair,  that  I  am  absolutely  lost. 
Will  you  render  me  a  little  help  ?  " 

"  None."  Defarge  spoke,  always  looking  straight  before 
him. 

"  Will  you  answer  me  a  single  question  ?  " 
"  Perhaps.    According  to  its  nature.    You  can  sav  what 
it  is." 

"  In  this  prison  that  I  am  going  to  so  unjustly,  shall  I 
have  some  free  communication  with  the  world  outside  1  " 
"  You  will  see." 

"  I  am  not  to  be  buried  there,  prejudged,  and  without  any 
means  of  presenting  my  case  1  " 

"  You  will  see.    But,  what  then  ?    Other  people  have 
been  similarly  buried  in  worse  prisons,  before  now." 
But  never  by  me,  Citizen  Defarge." 

Defarge  glanced  darkly  at  him  for  answer,  and  walked  on 
in  a  steady  and  set  silence.  The  deeper  he  sank  into  this  si- 
lence, the  fainter  hope  there  was — or  so  Darnay  thought — of 
his  softening  in  any  slight  degree.  He  therefore  made  haste 
to  say  : 

"  It  is  of  the  utmost  importance  to  me  (you  know,  Citizen, 
even  better  than  I,  of  how  much  importance),  that  1  should 
be  able  to  communicate  to  Mr.  Lorry  of  Tellson's  Bank,  an 
English  gentleman  who  is  now  in  Paris,  the  simple  fact,  with- 
out comment,  that  I  have  been  thrown  into  the  prison  of  La 
Force.    Will  you  cause  that  to  be  done  for  me  ?  " 


A  talTTof  two  cities. 


I  will  do,"  Defarge  doggedly  rejoined,  "nothing for  you, 
My  duty  is  to  my  country  and  the  People.  I  am  the  sworn 
servant  of  both,  against  you.    I  will  do  nothing  for  you." 

Charles  Darnay  felt  it  hopeless  to  entreat  him  further,  and 
his  pride  was  touched  besides.  As  they  walked  on  in  silence- 
he  could  not  but  see  how  used  the  people  were  to  the  spec- 
tacle of  prisoners  passing  along  the  streets.  The  very  chil- 
dren scarcely  noticed  him.  A  few  passers  turned  their  heads, 
and  a  few  shook  their  fingers  at  him  as  an  aristocrat ;  other- 
wise, that  a  man  in  good  clothes  should  be  going  to  prison, 
v/as  no  more  remarkable  than  that  a  laborer  in  working  clothes 
should  be  going  to  work.  In  one  narrow,  dark,  and  dirty 
street  through  which  they  passed,  an  excited  orator,  mounted 
on  a  stool,  was  addressing  an  excited  audience  on  the  crimes 
against  the  people,  of  the  king  and  the  royal  family.  The 
few  words  that  he  caught  from  tl%s  man's  lips,  first  made  it 
known  to  Charles  Darnay  that  the  king  was  in  prison,  and 
that  the  foreign  ambassadors  had  one  and  all  left  Paris.  On 
the  road  (except  at  Beauvais)  he  had  heard  absolutely  noth- 
ing. The  escort  and  the  universal  watchfulness  had  com- 
pletely isolated  him. 

That  he  had  fallen  among  far  greater  dangers  than  those 
which  had  developed  themselves  when  he  left  England, 
he  of  course  knew  now.  The  perils  had  thickened  about  him 
fast,  and  might  thicken  faster  and  faster  yet,  he  of  course 
knew  now.  He  could  not  but  admit  to  himself  that  he  might 
not  have  made  this  journey,  if  he  could  have  foreseen  the 
events  of  a  few  days.  And  yet  his  misgivings  were  not  so 
dark  as,  imagined  by  the  light  of  this  later  time,  they  would 
appear.  Troubled  as  the  future  was,  it  was  the  unknown  fu- 
ture, and  in  its  obscurity  there  was  ignorant  hope.  The 
horrible  massacre,  days  and  nights  long,  which,  within  a  few 
rounds  of  the  clock,  was  to  set  a  great  mark  of  blood  upon 
the  blessed  garnering  time  of  harvest,  was  as  far  out  of  his 
knowledge  as  if  it  had  been  a  hundred  thousand  years  away. 
The  "  sharp  female  newly-born,  and  called  La  Guillotine," 
was  hardly  known  to  him,  or  to  the  generality  of  people,  by 
name.  The  frightful  deeds  that  were  to  be  soon  done,  were 
probably  unimagined  at  that  time  in  the  brains  of  the  doers. 
How  could  they  have  a  place  in  the  shadowy  conceptions  of 
a  gentle  mind 

Of  unjust  treatment  }n  detention  and  hardship,  and 
cruel  separation  frorn  his  wife  and  child,  he  foreshadowed  the 


/A'  SECRET. 


239 


likelihood,  or  the  certainty  :  but,  beyond  this,  he  dreaded 
nothing  distinctly.  With  this  on  his  mind,  which  was  enough 
to  carry  into  a  dreary  prison  court-yard,  he  arrived  at  the 
prison  of  La  Force. 

A  man  with  a  bloated  face  opened  the  strong  wicket,  to 
whom  Defarge  presented  ''The  Emigrant  Evremonde." 

"  VV^hat  the  Devil  !  How  many  more  of  them  ! exclaimed 
the  man  with  the  bloated  face. 

Defarge  took  his  receipt  without  noticing  the  exclamation, 
and  withdrew,  with  his  two  fellow-patriots. 

"  VVhat  the  Devil,  I  say  again  !  "  exclaimed  the  jailer, 
left  w^ith  his  wife.      How  many  more  !  " 

The  jailers  wife,  being  provided  with  no  answer  to  the 
question,  merely  replied,  "  One  must  have  patience,  my 
dear  ! Three  turnkeys  who  entered  responsive  to  a  bell 
she  rang,  echoed  the  sentiment,  and  one  added,  "  For  the 
love  of  Liberty  ; "  which  sounded  in  that  place  like  an  inap- 
propriate conclusion. 

The  prison  of  La  Force  was  a  gloomy  prison,  dark  and 
filthy,  and  with  a  horrible  smell  of  foul  sleep  in  it.  Extraor- 
dinary how  soon  the  noisome  flavor  of  imprisoned  sleep,  be- 
comes manifest  in  all  such  places  that  are  ill-cared  for ! 

"  In  secret,  too,'^  grumbled  the  jailer,  looking  at  the 
written  paper.    "As  if  I  was  not  already  full  to  bursting  !  " 

He  stuck  the  paper  on  a  file  in  an  ill-humor,  and  Charles 
Darnay  awaited  his  further  pleasure  for  half  an  hour  :  some- 
times, pacing  to  and  fro  in  the  strong  arched  room  :  some- 
times, resting  on  a  stone  seat  :  in  either  case  detained  to  be 
imprinted  on  the  memory  of  the  chief  and  his  subordinates. 

"  Come  !  said  the  chief,  at  length  taking  up  his  keys, 
"come  with  me,  emigrant." 

Through'  the  dismal  prison  twilight,  his  new  charge  ac- 
companied him  by  corridor  and  staircase,  many  doors  clang- 
ing and  locking  behind  them,  until  they  came  into  a  large, 
low,  vaulted  chamber,  crowded  with  prisoners  of  both  sexes. 
The  women  were  seated  at  a  long  table,  reading  and  writing, 
knitting,  sewing,  and  embroidering  ;  the  men  were  for  the 
most  part  standing  behind  their  chairs,  or  lingering  up  and 
down  the  room. 

in  the  instinctive  association  of  prisoners  with  shameful 
crime  and  disgrace,  the  new  comer  recoiled  from  this  com- 
pany. But  the  crowning  unreality  of  his  long  unreal  ride, 
was  their  all  at  once  rising  to  receive  him,  with  every  re 
11 


240 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


finement  of  manner  known  to  the  time,  and  with  all  the 
engaging  graces  and  courtesies  of  life. 

So  strangely  clouded  were  these  refinements  by  the  prison 
manners  and  gloom,  so  spectral  did  they  become  in  the  inap- 
propriate squalor  and  misery  through  which  they  were  seen, 
that  Charles  Darnay  seemed  to  stand  in  a  company  of  the 
dead.  Ghosts  all !  The  ghost  of  beauty,  the  ghost  of  state- 
liness,  the  ghost  of  elegance,  the  ghost  of  pride,  the  ghost  of 
frivolity,  the  ghost  of  wit,  the  ghost  of  youth,  the  ghost  of 
age,  all  waiting  their  dismissal  from  the  desolate  shore,  all 
turning  on  him  eyes  that  were  changed  by  the  death  they  had 
died  in  coming  there. 

It  struck  him  motionless.  The  jailer  standing  at  his 
side,  and  the  other  jailers  moving  about,  who  would  have 
been  well  enough  as  to  appearance  in  the  ordinary  exercise 
of  their  functions,  looked  so  extravagantly  coarse  contrasted 
with  sorrowing  mothers  and  blooming  daughters  who  were 
there — with  the  apparitions  of  the  coquette,  the  young  beauty, 
and  the  mature  woman  delicately  bred — that  the  inversion  of 
all  experience  and  likelihood  which  the  scene  of  shadows 
presented,  was  heightened  to  its  utmost.  Surely,  ghosts  all. 
Surely,  the  long  unreal  ride  some  progress  of  disease  that  had 
brought  him  to  these  gloomy  shades  ! 

"  In  the  name  of  the  assembled  companions  in  misfortune,^' 
said  a  gentleman  of  courtly  appearance  and  address,  coming 
forward,  I  have  the  honor  of  giving  you  welcome  to  La 
Force,  and  of  condoling  with  you  on  the  calamity  that  has 
brought  you  among  us.  May  it  soon  terminate  happily  !  It 
would  be  an  impertinence  elsewhere,  but  it  is  not  so  here,  to 
ask  your  name  and  condition  ? 

Charles  Darnay  roused  himself,  and  gave  tli^  required  in- 
formation, in  words  as  suitable  as  he  could  find. 

"  But  I  hope,"  said  the  gentleman,  following  the  chief 
gaoler  with  his  eyes,  who  moved  across  the  room,  "  that  you 
are  not  in  secret  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  understand  the  meaning  of  the  term,  but  I 
have  heard  them  say  so." 

"  Ah,  what  a  pity !  We  so  much  regret  it !  But  take 
courage  ;  several  members  of  our  society  have  been  in  secret, 
at  first,  and  it  has  lasted  but  a  short  time."  Then  he  added, 
raising  his  voice,  "  I  grieve  to  inform  the  societ}^ — in  secret." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  commiseration  as  Charles  Darnay 
crossed  the  room  to  a  grated  door  where  the  gaoler  awaited 


IN  SECRET, 


241 


him,  and  many  voices — among  which,  the  soft  and  compas- 
sionate voices  of  women  were  conspicuous — gave  him  good 
wishes  and  encouragement.  He  turned  at  the  grated  door, 
to  render  the  thanks  of  his  heart ;  it  closed  under  the  gaoler's 
hand";  and  the  apparitions  vanished  from  his  sight  for  ever. 

The  wicket  opened  on  a  stone  staircase,  leading  upward. 
When  they  had  ascended  forty  steps  (the  prisoner  of  half  an 
hour  already  counted  them),  the  gaoler  opened  a  low  black 
door,  and  they  passed  into  a  solitary  cell  It  struck  cold  and 
damp,  but  was  not  dark.  ^ 

"  Yours,"  said  the  gaoler. 

"  Why  am  I  confined  alone  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  !  " 

"  I  can  buy  pen,  ink,  and  paper  ?  " 

"  Such  are  not  my  orders.  You  will  be  visited,  and  can 
ask  then.  At  present,  you  may  buy  your  food,  and  nothing 
more." 

There  were  in  the  cell,  a  chair,  a  table,  and  a  straw  mat 
tress.  As  the  gaoler  made  a  general  inspection  of  these 
objects,  and  of  the  four  walls,  before  going  out,  a  wandering 
fancy  wandered  through  the  mind  of  the  prisoner  leaning 
against  the  wall  opposite  to  him,  that  this  gaoler  was  so  un- 
wholesomely  bloated,  both  in  face  and  person,  as  to  look  like 
a  man  who  had  been  drowned  and  filled  with  water.  When 
the  gaoler  was  gone,  he  thought  in  the  same  wandering  way, 
"  Now  am  I  left,  as  if  I  were  dead."  Stopping  then,  to  look 
down  at  the  mattress,  he  turned  from  it  with  a  sick  fetling, 
and  thought,  "  And  here  in  these  crawling  creatures  is  the 
first  condition  of  the  body  after  death." 

"  Five  paces  by  four  and  a  half,  five  paces  by  foui  and  a 
half,  five  paces  by  four  and  a  half."  The  prisoner  walked  to 
and  fro  in  life  cell,  counting  its  measurement,  and  the  roar  of 
the  city  arose  like  muffled  drums  with  a  wild  swell  of  voices 
added  to  them.  He  made  shoes,  he  made  shoes,  he  made 
shoes."  The  prisoner  counted  the  measurement  again,  and 
paced  faster,  to  draw  his  mind  with  him  from  that  latter 
repetition.  "  The  ghosts  that  vanished  when  the  wicket 
closed.  There  was  one  among  them,  the  appearance  of  a 
lady  dressed  in  black,  who  was  leaning  in  the  embrasure  of  a 
window,  and  she  had  a  light  shining  upon  her  golden  hair, 
and  she  looked  like  =^  =^  ^  Let  us  ride  on  again,  for  God's 
sake,  through  the  illuminated  villages  with  the  people  alj 
awake.     *  *  ^  He  made  shoes,  he  made  shoes,  he  made 


242  ^  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

shoes  *  Five  paces  by  four  and  a  half."    With  such 

scraps  tossing  and  rolling  upward  from  the  depths  of  his 
mind,  the  prisoner  walked  faster  and  faster,  obstinately  count- 
ing and  counting  ;  and  the  roar  of  the  city  changed  to  this 
extent — that  it  still  rolled  in  like  muffled  drums,  but  with  the 
wail  of  voices  that  he  knew,  in  the  swell  that  rose  above 
them. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  GRINDSTONE. 

Tellson's  Bank,  established  in  the  Saint  Germain  Quar- 
ter of  Paris,  was  in  a  wing  of  a  large  house,  approached  by  a 
court-yard  and  shut  off  from  the  street  by  a  high  wall  and  a 
strong  gate.  The  house  belonged  to  a  great  nobleman  who 
had  lived  in  it  until  he  made  a  flight  from  the  troubles,  in  his 
own  cook's  dress,  and  got  across  the  borders.  A  mere  beast 
of  the  chase  flying  from  hunters,  he  was  still  in  his  metempsy- 
chosis no  other  than  the  same  Monseigneur,  the  preparation 
of  whose  chocolate  for  whose  lips  had  once  occupied  three 
strong  men  besides  the  cook  in  question. 

Monseigneur  gone,  and  the  three  strong  men  absolving 
themselves  from  the  sin  of  having  drawn  his  high  wages,  by 
being  more  than  ready  and  willing  to  cut  his  throat  on 
the  altar  of  the  dawning  Republic  one  and  indivisible  of 
Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death,  Monseigneur's  house 
had  been  first  sequestrated,  and  then  confiscated.  For,  all 
things  moved  so  fast,  and  decree  followed  decree  with  that 
fierce  precipitation,  that  now  upon  the  third  night  of  the 
autumn  month  of  September,  patriot  emissaries  of  the  law 
were  in  possession  of  Monseigneur's  house,  and  had  marked 
it  with  the  tricolor,  and  were  drinking  brandy  in  its  state 
apartments. 

A  place  of  business  in  London  like  Tellson's  place  of 
business  in  Paris,  would  soon  have  driven  the  House  out  of 
its  mind  and  into  the  Gazette.  For,  what  would  staid  British 
responsibility  and  respectability  have  said  to  orange-trees  in 
boxes  in  a  Bank  court-yard,  and  even  to  a  Cupid  over  the 


THE  GRINDSTONE. 


243 


counter  ?  Yet  such  things  were.  Tellson's  had  whitewashed 
the  Cupid,  but  he  was  still  to  be  seen  on  the  ceiling,  in  the 
coolest  linen,  aiming  (as  he  very  often  does)  at  money  from 
morning  to  night.  Bankruptcy  must  inevitably  have  come  of 
this  young  Pagan,  in  Lombard-street,  London,  and  also  of  a 
curtained  alcove  in  the  rear  of  the  immortal  boy,  and  also  of 
a  looking-glass  let  into  the  wall,  and  also  of  clerks  not  at  all 
old,  who  danced  in  public  on  the  slightest  provocation.  Yet, 
a  French  Tellson's  could  get  on  Vvdth  these  things  exceed- 
ingly well,  and,  as  long  as  the  times  held  together,  no  man 
had  taken  fright  at  them,  and  drawn  out  his  money. 

What  money  would  be  drawn  out  of  Tellson's  henceforth, 
and  what  would  lie  there,  lost  and  forgotten  ;  what  plate  and 
jewels  would  tarnish  in  Tellson's  hiding-places,  while  the 
depositors  rusted  in  prisons,  and  when  they  should  have 
violently  perished  ;  how  many  accounts  with  Tellson's  never 
to  be  balanced  in  this  world,  must  be  carried  over  into  the 
next ;  no  man  could  have  said,  that  night,  any  more  than  Mr. 
Jarvis  Lorry  could,  though  he  thought  heavily  of  these  ques- 
tions. He  sat  by  a  newly-lighted  wood  fire  (the  blighted  and 
unfruitful  year  was  prematurely  cold),  and  on  his  honest  and 
courageous  face  there  was  a  deeper  shade  than  the  pendent 
lamp  could  throw,  or  any  object  in  the  room  distortedly  reflect 
— a  shade  of  horror. 

He  occupied  rooms  in  the  Bank,  in  his  fidelity  to  the 
House  of  which  he  had  grown  to  be  a  part,  like  strong  root- 
ivy.  It  chanced  that  they  derived  a  kind  of  security  from 
the  patriotic  occupation  of  the  main  building,  but  the  true- 
hearted  old  gentleman  never  calculated  about  that.  All  such 
circumstances  were  indifferent  to  him,  so  that  he  did  his  duty. 
On  the  opposite  side  of  the  court-yard,  under  a  colonnade, 
was  extensive  standing  for  carriages — where,  indeed,  some 
carriages  of  Monseigneur  yet  stood.  Against  two  of  the 
pillars  were  fastened  two  great  flaring  flambeaux,  and  in  tlie 
light  of  these,  standing  out  in  the  open  air,  was  a  large  grind- 
stone :  a  roughly  mounted  thing  which  appeared  to  have 
hurriedly  been  brought  there  from  some  neighboring  smithy, 
or  other  workshop.  Rising  and  looking  out  of  window  at 
these  harmless  objects,  Mr.  Lorry  shivered,  and  retired  to  his 
seat  by  the  fire.  He  had  opened,  not  only  the  glass  window, 
but  the  lattice  blind  outside  it,  and  he  had  closed  both  again, 
and  he  shivered  through  his  frame. 

From  the  streets  beyond  the  higl^  wall  and  the  stiong 


244 


A  TA^LE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


gate,  there  came  the  usual  night  hum  of  the  city,  with  now 
and  then  an  indescribable  ring  in  it,  weird  and  unearthly,  as 
if  some  unwonted  sounds  of  a  terrible  nature  were  going  up 
to  Heaven. 

"  Thank  God,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  clasping  his  hands,  that 
no  one  near  and  dear  to  me  is  in  this  dreadful  town  to-night. 
May  He  have  mercy  on  all  who  are  in  danger  !  " 

Soon  afterwards,  the  bell  at  the  great  gate  sounded,  and 
he  thought,  "  They  have  come  back  !  "  and  sat  listening. 
But,  there  was  no  loud  irruption  into  the  court-yard,  as  he 
had  expected,  and  he  heard  the  gate  clash  again,  and  all  was 
quiet. 

The  nervousness  and  dread  that  were  upon  him  inspired 
that  vague  uneasiness  respecting  the  Bank,  which  a  great 
change  would  naturally  awaken,  with  such  feelings  roused. 
It  was  well  guarded,  and  he  got  up  to  go  among  the  trustv 
people  who  were  watching  it,  when  his  door  suddenly  opened, 
and  two  figures  rushed  in,  at  sight  of  which  he  fell  back  in 
amazement. 

Lucie  and  her  father  !  Lucie  with  her  arms  stretched  out 
to  him,  and  with  that  old  look  of  earnestness  so  concentrated 
and  intensified,  that  it  seemed  as  though  it  had  been  stamped 
upon  her  face  expressly  to  give  force  and  power  to  it  in  this 
one  passage  of  her  life. 

"  What  is  this  t  cried  Mr.  Lorry,  breathless  and  confused. 
What  is  the  matter  ?  Lucie  !  Manette  !  What  has  hap- 
pened ?    What  has  brought  you  here  ?    What  is  it  t  " 

With  the  look  fixed  upon  him,  in  her  paleness  and  wild- 
ness,  she  panted  out  in  his  arms,  imploringly,  O  my  dear 
friend  !    My  husband  ! 

"  Your  husband,  Lucie  ?  " 

"  Charles." 

"  What  of  Charles?" 

"  Here." 

"  Here,  in  Paris  1 " 

"  Has  been  here  some  days — three  or  four — I  don^t  know 
how  many — I  can't  collect  my  thoughts.  An  errand  of  gener- 
osity brought  him  here  unknown  to  us ;  he  was  stopped  at 
the  barrier,  and  sent  to  prison." 

The  old  man  uttered  an  irrepressible  cry.  Almost  at  the 
same  moment,  the  bell  of  the  great  gate  rang  again,  and  a 
loud  noise  of  feet  and  voices  came  pouring  into  the  court- 
yard. 


THE  GRINDSTONE. 


245 


"  What  is  that  noise  ?  "  said  the  Doctor,  turning  towards 
the  window. 

'•Don't  look!''  cried  Mr.  Lorry.  ''Don't  look  out! 
Manette,  for  your  life,  don't  touch  the  blind  !  " 

The  Doctor  turned,  with  his  hand  upon  the  fastening  of 
the  window,  and  said,  with  a  cool,  bold  smile  : 

"  My  dear  friend,  I  have  a  charmed  life  in  this  city.  I 
have  been  a  Bastile  prisoner.  There  is  no  patriot  in  Paris 
— in  Paris  ?  In  France — who,  knowing  me  to  have  been  a 
prisoner  in  the  Bastile,  would  touch  me,  except  to  overwhelm 
me  with  embraces,  or  carry  me  in  triumph.  My  old  pain  has 
given  me  a  power  that  has  brought  us  through  the  barrier, 
and  gained  us  news  of  Charles  there,  and  brought  us  here. 
I  knew  it  would  be  so  ;  I  knew  I  could  help  Charles  out  of 
all  danger  ;  I  told  Lucie  so. — What  is  that  noise  ?  "  His 
hand  was  again  upon  the  window. 

"  Don't  look !  "  cried  Mr.  Lorry,  absolutely  desperate.- 
"  No,  Lucie,  my  dear,  nor  you  !  "  He  got  hi^  arm  round  her, 
and  held  her.  "  Don't  be  so  terrified,  my  love.  I  solemnly 
swear  to  you  that  I  know  of  no  harm  having  happened  to 
Charles  ;  that  I  had  no  suspicion  even  of  his  being  in  this 
fatal  place.    What  prison  is  he  in  ?  " 

"  La  Force  !  " 

"  La  Force  !  Lucie,  my  child,  if  ever  you  were  brave  and 
serviceable  in  your  life — and  you  were  always  both — you  will 
compose  yourself  now,  to  do  exactly  as  I  bid  you  ;  for  more 
depends  upon  it  than  you  can  think,  or  I  can  say.  There  is 
no  help  for  you  in  any  action  on  your  part  to-night ;  you  can- 
not possibly  stir  out.  I  say  this,  because  what  I  must  bid 
you  to  do  for  Charles's  sake,  is  the  hardest  thing  to  do  of  all. 
You  must  instantly  be  obedient,  still,  and  quiet.  You  must 
let  me  pulfyou  in  a  room  at  the  back  here.  You  must  leave 
your  father  and  me  alone  for  two  minutes,  and  as  there  are 
Life  and  Death  in  the  world  you  must  not  delay." 

"  I  will  be  submissive  to  you.  I  see  in  your  face  that  you 
know  I  can  do  nothing  else  than  this.    I  know  you  are  true." 

The  old  man  kissed  her,  and  hurried  her  into  his  room, 
and  turned  the  key  ;  then,  came  hurrying  back  to  the  Doctor, 
and  opened  the  window  and  partly  opened  the  blind,  and  put 
his  hand  upon-  the  Doctor's  arm,  and  looked  out  with  him 
into  the  court-yard. 

Looked  out  upon  a  throng  of  men  and  women  :  not 
enough  in  number,  or  near  enough,  to  fill  the  court-yard :  not 


246 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


more  than  forty  or  fifty  in  all.    The  people  in  possession  ot 
\        the  house  had  let  them  in  at  the  gate,  and  they  had  rushed 
in  to  work  at  the  grindstone  ;  it  had  evidently  been  set  up 
there  for  their  purpose,  as  in  a  convenient  and  retired  spot. 

But,  such  awful  workers,  and  such  awful  work  ! 

The  grindstone  had  a  double  handle,  and,  turning  at  it 
madly  were  two  men,  whose  faces,  as  their  long  hair  flapped 
back  when  the  whirlings  of  the  grindstone  brought  their  faces 
up,  were  more  horrible  and  cruel  than  the  visages  of  the 
wildest  savages  in  their  most  barbarous  disguise.  False  eye 
brows  and  false  mustaches  were  stuck  upon  them,  and  their 
hideous  countenances  were  all  bloody  and  sweaty,  and  all 
awry  with  howling,  and  all  staring  and  glaring  with  beastly 
excitement  and  want  of  sleep.  As  these  ruffians  turned  and 
turned,  their  matted  locks  now  flung  forward  over  their  eyes, 
now  flung  backward  over  their  necks,  some  women  held  wine 
to  their  mouths  that  they  might  drink  ;  and  what  with  drop- 
ping bloodj  and  what  with  dropping  v/ine,  and  what  with  the 
stream  of  sparks  struck  out  of  the  stone,  all  their  wicked 
atmosphere  seemed  gore  and  fire.  The  eye  could  not  detect 
one  creature  in  the  group  free  from  the  smear  of  blood. 
Shouldering  one  another  to^get  next  at  the  sharpening-stone, 
were  men  stripped  to  the  waist,  with  the  stain  all  over  their 
limbs  and  bodies  ;  men  in  all  sorts  of  rags,  with  the  stain 
■  upon  those  rags  ;  men  devilishly  set  off  with  spoils  of  women's 
lace  and  silk  and  ribbon,  with  the  stain  dyeing  those  trifles 
through  and  through.  Hatchets,  knives,  bayonets,  swords, 
all  brought  to  be  sharpened,  were  all  red  with  it.  Some  of 
the  hacked  swords  were  tied  to  the  wrists  of  those  who  carried 
them,  with  strips  of  linen  and  fragments  of  dress :  ligatures 
various  in  kind,  but  all  deep  of  the  one  color.  And  as  the 
frantic  wielders  of  these  weapons  snatched  them  from  the 
stream  of  sparks  and  tore  away  into  the  streets,  the  same  red 
hue  was  red  in  their  frenzied  eyes  ; — eyes  which  any  unbru- 
talized  beholder  would  have  given  twenty  years  of  life,  to 
petrify  with  a  well-directed  gun. 

All  this  was  seen  in  a  moment,  as  the  vision  of  a  drowning 
man,  or  of  any  human  creature  at  any  very  great  pass,  could 
see  a  world  if  it  were  there.  They  drew  back  from  the  win- 
dow, and  die  Doctor  looked  for  explanation  in  his  friend's 
ashy  face. 

"They  are,''  Mr.  Lorry  whispered  the  words,  glancing 
fearfully  round  at  the  locked  room,    murdering  the  prison* 


THE  GRIiVDSTGNE. 


247 


ers.  If  you  are  sure  of  what  you  say  ;  if  you  really  have  the 
power  you  think  you  have — as  I  believe  you  have — make 
yourself  known  to  these  devils,  and  get  taken  to  La  Force. 
It  may  be  too  late,  I  don't  knov/,  but  let  it  not  be  a  minute 
later !  " 

Doctor  Manette  pressed  his  hand,  hastened  bareheaded 
out  of  the  room,  and  was  in  the  court-yard  when  Mr.  Lorry 
regained  the  blind. 

His  streaming  white  hair,  his  remarkable  face,  and  the  im- 
petuous confidence  of  his  manner,  as  he  put  the  weapons 
aside  like  water,  carried  him  in  an  instant  to  the  heart  of  the 
concourse  at  the  stone.  l  or  a  few  moments  there  was  a 
pause,  and  a  hurr}%  and  a  murmur,  and  the  unintelligible 
sound  of  his  voice;  and  then  Mr.  Lorry  saw  hini,  surrounded 
by  all,  and  in  the  mid^it  of  a  line  of  twenty  men  loiig,  all 
linked  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  hand  to  shoulder^  hurried  out 
with  cries  of — Live  the  Bastile  prisoner  !  Help  for  the  Bastile 
prisoner's  kindred  in  La  Force  !  Room  for  the  Bastile  pris- 
oner in  front  there  !  Save  tlie  prisoner  Fvr;nnonde  at  La 
Force  ! "  and  a  thousand  answering  shouts. 

.  He  closed  the  lattice  again  Vvith  a  fluttering  heart,  closed 
the  window  and  the  curtain,  h.astened  to  Lucie,  and  tokl  her 
that  her  father  was  assisted  by  the  people,  and  gone  in  search 
of  her  husband.  He  found  her  child  and  Miss  Pross  widi 
her ;  but,  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  be  surprised  by  theii 
appearance  until  a  long  time  afterwards,  when  he  sat  vv^atch- 
ing  them  in  such  quiet  as  the  night  knew. 

Lucie  had,  by  that  time,  fallen  into  a  stupor  on  the  floor 
at  his  feet,  clinging  to  his  hand.  Miss  Pross  had  laid  the 
child  down  on  his  own  bed,  and  her  head  had  gradually 
fallen  on  the  pillow  beside  her  pretty  charge.  O  the  long, 
long  night,  with  the  moans  of  the  poor  wife  !  And  O  the 
long,  long  night,  with  no  return  of  her  father  and  no  tidings ! 

Twice  more  in  the  darkness  the  bell  at  the  great  gate 
sounded,  and  the  irruption  was  repeated,  and  the  grindstone 
whirled  and  sputtered.  What  is  it  ?  "  cried  Lucie,  affrighted. 
"  Hush  !  The  soldier's  swords  are  sharpened  there,"  said 
Mr.  Lorry.  "  The  place  is  national  property  nov/,  and  used 
as  a  kind  of  armory,  my  love.'' 

Twice  more  in  all  ;  but  the  last  spell  of  work  was  feeble 
and  fitful.  Soon  afterwards  the  day  began  to  dawn,  and  he 
soitly  detached  himself  from  the  clasping  hand,  and  cautiously 
looked  out  a2:ain.    A  ^iivk  so  besmeared  that  he  might  have 


248  A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES.  ^^^"X^ 

been  a  sorely  wounded  soldier  creeping  back  to  consciousness 
on  a  field  of  slain,  was  rising  from  the  pavement  by  the  side 
of  the  grindstone,  and  looking  about  him  with  a  vacant  air. 
Shortly,  this  worn-out  murderer  descried  in  the  imperfect 
light  one  of  the  carriages  of  Monseigneur,  and,  staggering  to 
that  gorgeous  vehicle,  climbed  in  at  the  door,  and  shut  him- 
self up  to  take  his  rest  on  its  dainty  cushions. 

The  great  grindstone.  Earth,  had  turned  when  Mr.  Lorry 
looked  out  again,  and  the  sun  was  red  on  the  court-yard. 
But,  the  lesser  grindstone  stood  alone  there  in  the  calm  morn- 
ing air,  with  a  red  upon  it  that  the  sun  had  never  given,  and 
would  never  take  away. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  SHADOW. 

One  of  the  first  considerations  which  arose  in  the  busi- 
ness mind  of  Mr.  Lorry  when  business  hours  came  round,  was 
this  : — that  he  had  no  right  to  imperil  Tellson's  by  sheltering 
the  wife  of  an  emigrant  prisoner  under  the  Bank  roof.  His 
own  possessions,  safety,  life,  he  would  have  hazarded  for 
Lucie  and  her  child,  v/ithout  a  moment's  demur  ;  but  the  great 
trust  he  held  was  not  his  own,  and  as  to  that  business  charge 
he  was  a  strict  man  of  business. 

At  first,  his  mind  reverted  to  Defarge,  and  he  thought  of 
finding  out  the  wine-shop  again  and  taking  counsel  with  its 
master  in  reference  to  the  safest  dwelling-place  in  the  dis- 
tracted state  of  the  city.  But,  the  same  consideration  that 
suggested  him,  repudiated  him  ;  he  lived  in  the  most  violent 
Quarter,  and  doubtless  was  influential  there,  and  deep  in  its 
dangerous  workings. 

Noon  coming,  and  the  Doctor  not  returning,  and  every 
minute's  delay  tending  to  compromise  Tellson's,  Mr.  Lorry 
advised  with  Lucie.  She  said  that  her  father  had  spoken  of 
hiring  a  lodging  for  a  short  term  in  that  Quarter,  near  the 
Banking-house.  As  there  was  no  business  objection  to  this, 
and  as  he  foresaw  that  even  if  it  were  all  well  with  Charles, 
and  he  v/ere  to  be  released,  he  could  not  hope  to  leave  the 


THE  SHADOW. 


city,  Mr.  Lorry  went  out  in  quest  of  such  a  lodging,  and  found 
a  suitable  one  high  up  in  a  removed  by-street  where  the 
closed  blinds  in  all  the  other  windows  of  a  high  melancholy 
square  of  buildings  marked  deserted  homes. 

To  this  lodging  he  at  once  removed  Lucie  and  her  child, 
and  Miss  Pross :  giving  them  what  comfort  he  could,  and 
much  more  than  he  had  himself.  He  left  Jerry  with  them, 
as  a  figure  to  fill  a  doorway  that  would  bear  considerable 
knocking  on  the  head,  and  returned  to  his  own  occupations. 
A  disturbed  and  doleful  mind  he  brought  to  bear  upon  them, 
and  slowly  and  heavily  the  day  lagged  on  with  him. 

It  wore  itself  out,  and  wore  him  out  wdtli  it,  until  the  Bank 
closed.  He  was  again  alone  in  his  room  of  the  previous  night, 
considering  what  to  do  next,  when  he  heard  a  foot  upon  the 
stair.  In  a  few  moments,  a  man  stood  in  his  presence,  who, 
with  a  keenly  observant  look  at  him,  addressed  him  by  his 
name. 

"Your  servant,"  said  Mr.  Lorry.    "  Do  you  know  me  ? ' 

He  was  a  strongly  made  man  with  dark  curling  hair,  from 
forty-five  to  fifty  years  of  age.  For  answer  he  repeated,  with 
out  any  change  of  emphasis,  the  words : 

"  Do  you  know  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  you  somewhere.'' 

"  Perhaps  at  my  wine-shop  ? '' 

Much  interested  and  agitated,  Mr.  Lorr}''  said  :  "  You 
come  from  Doctor  Manette  ?  " 

Yes.    I  come  from  Doctor  Manette." 

"  And  what  says  he  ?    What  does  he  send  mc  ?  " 

Defarge  gave  into  his  anxious  hand,  an  open  scrap  of 
paper.    It  bore  the  words  in  the  Doctor's  writing : 

"  Charles  is  safe,  but  I  cannot  safely  leave  this  place  yet, 
I  have  obtained  the  favor  that  the  bearer  has  a  short  note 
from  Charles  to  his  wife.    Let  the.  bearer  see  his  wife." 

It  was  dated  from  La  Force,  within  an  hour. 

"  Will  you  accompany  me,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  joyfully  re- 
lieved after  reading  this  note  aloud,  "  to  where  his  wife  re- 
sides ? " 

"Yes,"  returned  Defarge. 

Scarcely  noticing  as  yet,  in  what  a  curiously  reserved  and 
mechanical  way  Defarge  spoke,  Mr.  Lorry  put  on  his  hat  and 
they  went  down  into  the  court-yard.  There,  they  found  two 
women ;  one  knitting. 


250 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


Madame  Defarge,  surely !  "  said  Mr.  Lorry,  who  had 
left  her  in  exactly  the  same  attitude  some  seventeen  years 
ago. 

It  is  she,"  observed  her  husband. 

Does  Madame  go  with  us  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Lorry,  seeing 
that  she  moved  as  they  moved. 

Yes.  That  she  may  be  able  to  recognize  the  faces  and 
know  the  persons.    It  is  for  their  safety." 

Beginning  to  be  struck  by  Defarge's  manner,  Mr.  Lorry 
looked  dubiously  at  him,  and  led  the  way.  Both  the  women 
followed  ;  the  second  woman  being  The  Vengeance. 

They  passed  through  the  intervening  streets  as  quickly  as 
they  might,  ascended  the  staircase  of  the  new  domicile,  vvcre 
admitted  by  Jerry,  and  found  Lucie  weeping,  alone.  She  was 
thrown  into  a  transport  by  the  tidings  Mr.  Lorry  gave  her  of 
her  husband,  and  clasped  the  hand  that  delivered  his  note — 
little  thinking  what  it  had  been  doing  near  him  in  the  night, 
and  might,  but  for  a  chance,  have  done  to  him. 

"  Dearest, — Take  courage.  I  am  well,  and  your  father 
has  influence  around  me.  You  cannot  answer  this.  Kiss  our 
child  for  me." 

That  was  all  the  writing.  It  was  so  much,  however,  to 
her  who  received  it,  that  she  turned  from  Defarge  to  his  wife, 
and  kissed  one  of  the  hands  that  knitted.  It  was  a  passion- 
ate, loving,  thankful,  womanly  action,  but  the  hand  made  no 
response— dropped  cold  and  heavy,  and  took  to  its  knitting 
again. 

There  was  something  in  its  touch  that  gave  Lucie  a  check. 
She  stopped  in  the  act  of  putting  the  note  in  her  bosom,  and, 
with  her  hands  yet  at  her  neck,  looked  terrified  at  Madame 
Defarge.  Madame  Defarge  met  the  lifted  eyebrows  and  fore- 
head with  a  cold,  impassive  stare. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  striking  in  to  explain  ;  there 
are  frequent  risings  in  the  streets;  and,  although  it  is  not 
likely  they  will  ever  trouble  you,  Madame  Defarge  wishes  to 
see  those  whom  she  has  the  power  to  protect  at  such  times, 
to  the  end  that  sl:ie  may  know  them — that  she  may  identify 
them.  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  rather  halting  in  his  reas- 
suring words,  as  the  stony  manner  of  all  the  three  impressed 
itself  upon  him  more  and  more,  I  state  the  case,  Citizen  De 
farge  ? " 


THE  SHADOW, 


Defarge  looked  gloomily  at  his  wife,  and  gave  no  other 
answer  than  a  gruff  sound  of  acqui^cence. 

"  You  had  better,  Lucie,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  doing  all  he 
could  to  propitiate,  by  tone  and  manner,  "  have  the  dear  child 
here,  and  our  good  Pross.  Our  good  Pross,  Defarge,  is  an 
English  lady,  and  knows  no  French." 

The  lady  in  question,  whose  rooted  conviction  that  she 
was  more  than  a  match  for  any  foreigner,  was  not  to  be 
shaken  by  distress  and  danger,  appeared  with  folded  arms, 
and  observed  in  English  to  The  Vengeance,  whom  her  eyes 
first  encountered,  "  Well,  I  am  sure.  Boldface  1  I  hope  you 
are  pretty  well !  "  She  also  bestowed  a  British  cough  on  Ma- 
dame Defarge  ;  but,  neither  of  the  two  took  much  heed  of  her. 

"Is  that  his  child  ? "  said  Madame  Defarge,  stopping  in 
her  work  for  the  first  time,  and  pointing  her  knitting-needle 
at  little  Lucie  as  if  it  were  the  finger  of  Fate. 

"  Yes,  madame,"  answered  Mr.  Lorry  ;  this  is  our  poor 
prisoner's  darling  daughter,  and  only  child." 

The  shadow  attendant  on  Madame  Defarge  and  her  party 
seemed  to  fall  so  threatening  and  dark  on  the  child,  that  her 
motl^er  instinctively  kneeled  on  the  ground  beside  her,  and 
held  her  to  her  breast.  The  shadow  attendant  on  Madame 
Defarge  and  her  party  seemed  then  to  fall,  threatening  and 
dark,  on  both  the  mother  and  the  child. 

"  It  is  enough,  my  husbaiid/'  said  Madame  Defarge.  "  I 
have  seen  them.    We  may  go." 

But,  the  suppressed  manner  had  enough  of  menace  in  it — ^ 
not  visible  and  presented,  but  indistinct  and  withheld — to 
alarm  Lucie  into  saying,  as  she  laid  her  appealing  hand  on 
Madame  Defarge's  dress  : 

"  You  will  be  good  to  my  poor  husband.  You  will  do  him 
no  harm.    You  will  help  nie  to  see  him  if  you  can  t  ^' 

"  Your  husband  is  not  my  business  here,"  replied  Madame 
Defarge,  looking  down  at  her  with  perfect  composure.  ''It 
is  the  daughter  of  your  father  who  is  my  business  here." 

"  For  my  sake,  then,  be  merciful  to  my  husband.  For  my 
child's  sake  !  She  will  put  her  hands  together  and  pray  ycu 
to  be  merciful.  We  are  more  afraid  of  you  than  of  these 
others." 

Madame  Defarge  received  it  as  a  compliment,  and  looked 
at  her  husband.  Defarge,  who  had  been  uneasily  biting  his 
thumb-nail  and  looking  at  her,  collected  his  face  into  a  sterner 
expression. 


252 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


"  What  IS  it  that  your  husband  says  in  that  little  letter  ? 
•  asked  Madame  Dcfarge,  with  a  lowering  smile.    "  Influence  ; 
he  says  something  touching  influence  ?  " 

"  That  my  father,"  said  Lucie,  hurriedly  taking  the  paper 
from  her  breast,  but  with  her  alarmed  eyes  on  her  questioner 
and  not  on  it,  "  has  much  influence  around  him." 

"  Surely  it  will  releasfe  him  !  "  said  Madame  Defarga 
"  Let  it  do  so." 

As  a  wife  and  mother,"  cried  Lucie,  most  earnestly,  "  I 
implore  you  to  have  pity  on  me  and  not  to  exercise  any  power 
that  you  possess,  against  my  innocent  husband,  but  to  use  it 
in  his  behalf.  O  sister-woman,  think  of  me.  As  a  wife  and 
mother !  " 

Madame  Defarge  looked,  coldly  as  ever,  at  the  suppliant, 
and  said,  turning  to  her  friend  The  Vengeance  : 

The  wives  and  mothers  we  have  been  used  to  see,  since 
we  were  as  little  as  this  child,  and  much  less,  have  not  been 
greatly  considered  ?  We  have  known  their  husbands  and 
fathers  laid  in  prison  and  kept  from  them,  often  enough  ?  All 
our  lives,  we  have  seen  our  sister-women  suffer,  in  themselves 
and  in  their  children,  poverty,  nakedness,  hunger,  thirst, 
sickness,  misery,  oppression  and  neglect  of  all  kinds?" 

We  have  seen  nothing  else,"  returned  The  Vengeance. 

"We  have  borne  this  .a  long  time,"  said  Madame  Defarge, 
turning  her  eyes  again  upon  Lucie.  "  Judge  you !  Is  it 
likely  that  the  trouble  of  one  wife  and  mother  would  be  much 
to  us  now  ?  " 

She  resumed  her  knitting  and  went  out.  The  Vengeance 
followed.    Defarge  went  last,  and  closed  the  door. 

"  Courage,  my  dear  Lucie,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  as  he  raised 
her.  "  Courage,  courage  !  So  far  all  goes  well  with  us — ■ 
much,  much  better  than  it  has  of  late  gone  with  many  poor 
souls.    Cheer  up,  and  have  a  thankful  heart." 

"  I  am  not  thankless,  I  hope,  but  that  dreadful  woman 
seems  to  throw  a  shadow  on  me  and  on  all  my  hopes." 

"  Tut,  tut  !  "  said  Mr.  Lorry  ;  "  what  is  this  despondency 
in  the  brave  little  breast  ?  A  shadow  indeed  !  No  substance 
in  it,  Lucie." 

But  the  shadow  of  the  manner  of  these  Defarges  was  dark 
upon  himself,  for  all  that,  and  in  his  secret  mind  it  troubled 
him  greatly. 


CALM  IN  STORM. 


253 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CALMINSTORM. 

Doctor  Manette  did  not  return  until  the  morning  of  the 
fourth  day  of  his  absence.  So  much  of  what  happened  in  that 
dreadful  time  as  could  be  kept  from  the  knowledge  of  Lucie 
was  so  well  concealed  from  her,  that  not  until  long  afterwards, 
when  France  and  she  were  far  apart,  did  she  know  that  eleven 
hundred  defenceless  prisoners  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages  had 
been  killed  by  the  populace  ;  that  four  days  and  nights  had 
been  darkened  by  this  deed  of  horror  ;  and  that  the  air  around 
her  had  been  tainted  by  the  slain.  She  only  knew  that  there 
had  been  an  attack  upon  the  prisons,  that  all  political  priso- 
ners had  been  in  danger,  and  that  some  had  been  dragged  out 
by  the  crowd  and  murdered. 

To  Mr.  Lorry,  the  Doctor  communicated  under  an  injunc- 
tion of  secrecy  on  which  he  had  no  need  to  dwell,  that  the 
cro\f  d  had  taken  him  through  a  scene  of  carnage  to  the  prison 
of  La  Force.  That,  in  the  prison  he  had  found  a  self-appointed 
Tribunal  sitting,  before  which  the  prisoners  were  brought 
singly,  and  by  which  they  were  rapidly  ordered  to  be  put  forth 
to  be  massacred,  or  to  be  released,  or  (in  a  few  cases)  to  be 
sent  back  to  their  cells.  That,  presented  by  his  conductors 
to  this  Tribunal,  he  had  announced  himself  by  name  and  pro- 
fession as  having  been  for  eighteen  years  a  secret  and  unac- 
cused prisoner  in  the  Bastile ;  that,  one  of  the  body  so 
sitting  in  judgment  had  risen  and  identified  him,  and  that  this 
man  was  Defarge. 

That,  hereupon  he  had  ascertained,  through  the  registers 
on  the  table,  that  his  son-in-law  was  among  the  living  pris- 
oners, and  had  pleaded  hard  to  the  Tribunal — of  whom  some 
members  were  asleep  and  some  awake,  some  dirty  with  mur- 
der and  some  clean,  some  sober  and  some  not — for  his  life 
and  liberty.  That,  in  the  first  frantic  greetings  lavished  on 
himself  as  a  notable  sufferer  under  the  overthrown  system,  it 
had  been  accorded  to  him  to  have  Charles  Darnay  brought 
before  the  lawless  Court,  and  examined.  That,  he  seemed 
on  the  point  of  being  at  once  released,  when  the  tide  in  his 
favor  met  with  some  unexplained  check  (not  intelligible  to  the 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


Doctor),  which  led  to  a  few  words  of  secret  conference.  That^ 
the  man  sitting  as  President  had  then  informed  Doctor  Ma- 
nette  that  the  prisoner  must  remain  in  custody,  but  should, 
for  his  sake,  be  held  inviolate  in  safe  custody.  That,  imme- 
diately, on  a  signal,  the  prisoner  was  removed  to  the  interior 
of  the  prison  again  ;  but,  that  he,  the  Doctor,  had  then  so 
strongly  pleaded  for  permission  to  remain  and  assure  himself 
that  his  son-in-law  was,  through  no  malice  or  mischance,  de- 
livered to  the  concourse  whose  murderous  yells  outside  the 
gate  had  often  drowned  the  proceedings,  that  he  had  obtained 
the  permission,  and  had  remained  in  that  Hall  of  Blood  until 
the  danger  was  over. 

The  sights  he  had  seen  there,  with  brief  snatches  of  food 
and  sleep  by  intervals,  shall  remain  untold.  The  mad  joy 
over  the  prisoners  who  were  saved,  had  astounded  him  scarce- 
ly less  than  the  mad  ferocity  against  those  who  were  cut  to 
pieces.  One  prisoner  there  was,  he  saidj  who  had  been  dis- 
charged into  the  street  free,  but  at  whom  a  mistaken  savage 
had  thrust  a  pike  as  he  passed  cut.  Being  besought  to  go  to 
him  and  dress  the  w^ound,  the  Doctor  had  passed  out  at  the 
same  gate,  and  had  found  him  in  the  arms  of  a  company  of 
Samaritans,  who  were  seated  on  the  bodies  of  their  victims. 
With  an  inconsistency  as  monstrous  as  anything  in  this  awful 
nightmare,  they  had  helped  the  healer,  and  tended  the 
wounded  man  wdlh  the  gentlest  solicitude — had  made  a  litter 
for  him  and  escorted  him  carefully  from  the  spot — had  then 
caught  up  their  w^eapons  and  plunged  anew  into  a  butchery  so 
dreadful,  that  the  Doctor  had  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands, 
and  swooned  away  in  the  midst  of  it. 

As  Mr.  Lorry  received  these  confidences,  and  as  he 
watched  the  face  of  his  friend  now  sixty-tw^o  years  of  age,  a 
misgiving  arose  within  him  that  such  dread  experiences  would 
revive  the  old  danger.  But  he  had  never  seen  his  friend  in 
his  present  aspect:  he  had  never  at  all  know^n  him  in  liis 
present  character.  For  the  first  time  the  Doctor  felt,  row, 
that  his  suffering  was  strength  and  power.  For  the  first  time 
he  felt  that  in  that  sharp  fire,  he  liad  slowly  forged  the  iron 
which  could  break  the  prison  door  of  his  daughter's  husband, 
and  deli\  er  him.  "  It  all  tended  to  a  good  end,  my  friend  ;  it 
was  not  mere  waste  and  ruin.  As  my  beloved  child  was  help- 
ful in  restoring  me  to  myself,  I  will  be  helpful  x\o\>i  in  restor 
ing  the  dearest  part  of  herself  to  her  ;  by  the  aid  of  Heaven  T 
will  do  it  !      Thus,  Doctor  Manette.    And  when  Jarvis  Lorr}: 


CALM  m  STORM. 


2SS 


saw  the  kindled  eyes,  the  resolute  face,  the  calm  strong  look 
and  bearing  of  the  man  whose  life  always  seemed  to  him  to 
have  been  stopped,  like  a  clock,  for  so  many  years,  and  then 
set  going  again  with  an  energy'  which  had  lain  dormant  during 
the  cessation  of  its  usefulness,  he  believed. 

Greater  things  than  the  Doctor  had  at  that  time  to  con 
tend  with,  would  have  yielded  before  his  persevering  purposCc 
While  he  kept  himself  in  his  place,  as  a  physician,  whose  busi- 
ness was  with  all  degrees  of  mankind,  bond  and  free,  rich  and 
poor,  bad  and  good,  he  used  his  personal  influence  so  wisely, 
that  he  was  soon  the  inspecting  physician  of  three  prisons,  and 
among  them  of  La  Force.  He  could  now  assure  Lucie  that 
her  husband  was  no  longer  confined  alone,  but  was  mixed 
with  the  general  body  of  prisoners  ;  he  saw  her  husband  week- 
ly, and  brought  sweet  messages  to  her,  straight  from  his  lips  ; 
sometimes  her  husband  himself  sent  a  letter  to  her  (though 
never  by  the  Doctor's  hand),  but  she  was  not  permitted  to 
write  to  him  :  for,  among  the  many  wild  suspicions  of  plots  in 
the  prisons,  the  wildest  of  all  pointed  at  emigrants  who  were 
known  to  have  made  friends  or  permanent  connections  abroad. 

This  new  life  of  the  Doctor's  was  an  anxious  life,  no 
doubt;  still,  the  sagacious  Mr.  Lorry  saw  that  there  was  a 
new  sustaining  pride  in  it.  Nothing  unbecoming  tinged  the 
pride  ;  it  was  a  natural  and  worthy  one  ;  but  he  observed  it  as 
a  curiosity.  The  Doctor  knew,  that  up  to  that  time,  his  im- 
prisonment  had  been  associated  in  the  minds  of  his  daughter 
and  his  friend,  with  his  personal  affliction,  deprivation,  and 
weakness.  Now  that  this  was  changed,  and  he  knew  himself  to 
be  invested  through  that  old  trial  with  forces  to  which  they 
both  looked  for  Charles's  ultimate  safety  and  deliverance,  he 
became  so  far  exalted  by  the  change,  that  he  took  the  lead 
and  direction,  and  required  them  as  the  weak,  to  trust  to  him 
as  the  strong.  The  preceding  relative  positions  of  himself 
and  Lucie  were  reversed,  yet  only  as  the  liveliest  gratitude 
and  affection  could  reverse  them,  for  he  could  have  had  no 
pride  but  in  rendering  some  service  to  her  who  had  rendered 
so  much  to  him.  "All  curious  to  see,"  thought  Mr.  Lorry, 
in  his  amiably  shrewd  way,  "  but  all  natural  and  right ;  so, 
take  the  lead,  my  dear  friend,  and  keep  it  :  it  couldn't  be  in 
better  hands." 

But,  though  the  Doctor  tried  hard,  and  never  ceased  try* 
ing,  to  get  Charles  Darnay  set  at  liberty,  or  at  least  to  get 
him  brought  to  trial,  the  public  current  of  the  time  set  too 


256 


A  TALE  OF  TIVO  CITIES. 


Strong  and  fast  for  him.  The  new  era  began  ;  the  king  was 
tried,  doomed,  and  beheaded ;  the  Republic  of  Liberty, 
Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death,  declared  for  victory  or  death 
against  the  world  in  arms ;  the  black  flag  waved  night  and 
day  from  the  great  towers  of  Notre  Dame  ;  three  hundred 
thousand  men,  summoned  to  rise  against  the  tyrants  of  the 
earthy  rose  from  all  the  varying  soils  of  France,  as  if  the  drag- 
on's teeth  had  been  sown  broadcast,  and  had  yielded  fruit 
equally  on  hill  and  plain,  on  rock,  in  gravel,  and  alluvial  mud, 
under  the  bright  sky  of  the  South  and  under  the  clouds  of  the 
North,  in  fell  and  forest,  in  the  vineyards  and  the  olive-grounds 
and  among  the  cropped  grass  and  the  stubble  of  the  corn, 
along  the  fruitful  banks  of  the  broad  rivers,  and  in  the  sand 
of  the  sea-shore.  What  private  solicitude  could  rear  itself 
against  the  deluge  of  the  Year  One  of  Liberty — the  deluge 
rising  from  below,  not  falling  from  above,  and  with  the  win- 
dows of  Heaven  shut,  not  opened  ! 

There  was  no  pause,  no  pity,  no  peace,  no  interval  of  re- 
lenting rest,  no  measurement  of  time.  Though  days  and 
nights  circled  as  regularly  as  when  time  was  young,  and  the 
evening  and  morning  were  the  first  day,  other  count  of  time 
there  was  none.  Hold  of  it  was  lost  in  the  raging  fever  of  a 
nation,  as  it  is  in  the  fever  of  one  patient.  Now,  breaking  the 
unnatural  silence  of  a  whole  city,  the  executioner  showed  the 
people  the  head  of  the  king — and  now,  it  seemed  almost  in 
the  same  breath,  the  head  of  his  fair  wdfe  which  had  had  eight 
wear}^  months  of  imprisoned  widowhood  and  misery,  to  turn  it 
gray. 

And  yet,  observing  the  strange  law  of  contradiction  which 
obtains  in  all  such  cases,  the  time  was  long,  while  it  flamed 
by  so  fast.  A  revolutionary  tribunal  in  the  capital,  and  forty 
or  fifty  thousand  revolutionary  committees  all  over  the  land  j 
a  law  of  the  Suspected,  which  struck  away  all  security  for  lib- 
erty or  life,  and  delivered  over  any  good  and  innocent  person 
to  any  bad  and  guilty  one  ;  prisons  gorged  with  people  who 
had  committed  no  offence,  and  could  obtain  no  hearing ; 
these  things  became  the  established  order  and  nature  of  ap- 
pointed things,  and  seemed  to  be  ancient  usage  before  they 
were  many  weeks  old.  Above  all,  one  hideous  figure  grew  as 
familiar  as  if  it  had  been  before  the  general  gaze  from  the 
foundations  of  the  world — the  figure  of  the  sharp  female  called 
La  Guillotine. 

It  was  the  popular  theme  for  jests ;  it  was  the  best  cure 


CALM  IN  STORM. 


257 


for  headache,  it  infallibly  prevented  the  hair  from  turning 
gray,  it  imparted  a  peculiar  delicacy  to  the  complexion,  it  was 
the  National  Razor  which  shaved  close  :  who  kissed  La  Guil- 
lotine, looked  through  the  little  window  and  sneezed  into  the 
sack.  It  was  the  sign  of  the  regeneration  of  the  human  race. 
It  superseded  the  Cross.  Models  of  it  were  worn  on  breasts 
from  which  the  Cross  was  discarded,  and  it  was  bowed  down 
t.G  and  believed  in  where  the  Cross  was  denied. 

It  sheared  off  heads  so  many,  that  it,  and  the  ground  it 
most  polluted,  were  a  rotten  red.  It  was  taken  to  pieces,  like 
a  toy-puzzle  for  a  young  Devil,  and  was  put  together  again 
when  the  occasion  wanted  it.  It  hushed  the  eloquent,  struck 
down  the  powerful,  abolished  the  beautiful  and  good.  Tv/enty- 
two  friends  of  high  public  mark,  twenty-one  living  and  one 
dead,  it  had  lopped  the  heads  off,  in  one  morning,  in  as  many 
minutes.  The  name  of  the  strong  man  of  Old  Scripture  had 
descended  to  the  chief  functionary  who  worked  it ;  but,  so 
armed,  he  was  stronger  than  his  namesake,  and  blinder,  and 
tore  away  the  gates  of  God's  own  Temple  every  day. 

Among  these  terrors,  and  the  brood  belonging  to  them, 
the  Doctor  walked  with  a  steady  head,  confident  in  his  power, 
cautiously  persistent  in  his  end,  never  doubting  that  he  would 
save  Lucie's  husband  at  last.  Yet  the  current  of  the  time 
swept  by,  so  . strong  and  deep,  and  carried  the  time  away  so 
fiercely,  that  Charles  had  lain  in  prison  one  year  and  three 
months  when  the  Doctor  was  thus  steady  and  confident.  So 
much  more  wicked  and  distracted  had  the  Revolution  grown 
in  that  December  month,  that  the  rivers  of  the  South  were  en- 
cumbered with  the  bodies  of  the  violently  drowned  by  night, 
and  prisoners  were  shot  in  lines  and  squares  under  the  south- 
ern wintry  sun.  Still,  the  Doctor  walked  among  the  terrors 
with  a  steady  head.  No  man  better  known  than  he,  in  Paris 
at  that  day  ;  no  man  in  a  stranger  situation.  Silent,  humane, 
indispensable  in  hospital  and  prison,  using  his  art  equally 
among  assassins  and  victims,  he  was  a  man  apart.  In  the 
exercise  of  his  skill,  the  appearance  and  the  story  of  the  Bas- 
tile  Captive  removed  him  from  all  other  men.  He  was  not 
suspected  or  brought  in  question,  any  more  than  if  he  had  in- 
deed been  recalled  to  life  some  eighteen  years  before,  or  were 
a  Spixit  moving  among  mortals. 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  WOOD-SAWYER. 

One  year  and  three  months.  During  all  that  time  Lucie 
was  never  sure,  from  hour  to  hour,  but  that  the  Guillotine 
would  strike  off  her  husband's  head  next  day.  Every  day^ 
through  the  stony  streets,  the  tumbrils  now  jolted  heavily, 
filled  with  Condemned.  Lovely  girls  ;  bright  women,  brown- 
haired,  black-haired,  and  gray ;  youths ;  stalwart  men  and 
old  ;  gentle  born  and  peasant  born  ;  all  red  wine  for  La  Gu'il- 
lotine,  all  daily  brought  into  light  from  the  dark  cellars  of  the 
loathsome  prisons,  and  carried  to  her  through  the  streets  to 
slake  her  devouring  thirst.  Liberty,  equality,  fraternity,  or 
death  ; — the  last,  much  the  easiest  to  bestow,  O  Guillotine  ! 

If  the  suddenness  of  her  calamity,  and  the  whirling  wheels 
of  the  time  had  stunned  the  Doctor's  daughter  into  awaiting 
the  result  in  idle  despair,  it  would  but  have  been  with  her  as 
it  was  with  many.  But,  from  the  hour  when  she  had  taken 
the  white  head  to  her  fresh  young  bosom  in  the  garret  of 
Saint  Antoine,  she  had  been  true  to  her  duties.  She  was 
truest  to  them  in  the  season  of  trial,  as  all  the  quietly  loyal 
and  good  will  always  be. 

As  soon  as  they  were  established  in  their  new  residence, 
and  her  father  had  entered  on  the  routine  of  his  avocations, 
she  arranged  the  little  household  as  exactly  as  if  her  husband 
had  been  there.  Everything  had  its  appointed  place  and  its 
appointed  time.  Little  Lucie  she  taught  as  regularly,  as  if 
they  had  all  been  united  in  their  English  home.  The  slight 
devices  with  which  she  cheated  herself  into  the  show  of  a  be- 
lief that  they  would  soon  be  reunited — the  little  preparations 
for  his  speedy  return,  the  setting  aside  of  his  chair  and  his 
books — these,  and  the  solemn  prayer  at  night  for  one  dear 
prisoner  especially,  among  the  many  unhappy  souls  in  prison 
and  the  shadow  of  death — were  almost  the  only  outspoken  re- 
liefs of  her  heavy  mind. 

She  did  not  greatly  alter  in  appearance.  The  plain  dark 
dresses,  akin  to  mourning  dresses,  which  she  and  her  child 
wore,  were  as  neat  and  as  well  attended  to  as  the  brighter 
clothes  of  happy  days.    She  lost  her  color,  and  the  old  and 


THE  WOOD^SAWYER. 


259 


intent  expression  was  a  constant,  not  an  occasional  thing  \ 
otherwise,  she  remained  very  pretty  and  comely.  Sometimes, 
at  night  on  kissing  her  father,  she  would  burst  into  the  grief 
she  had  repressed  all  day,  and  would  say  that  her  sole  reliance, 
under  Heaven,  was  on  him.  He  always  resolutely  answered : 
Nothing  can  happen  to  him  without  my  knowledge,  and  I 
know  that  I  can  save  him,  Lucie.'' 

They  had  not  made  the  round  of  their  changed  life  many 
weeks,  when  her  father  said  to  her,  on  coming  home  one 
evening : 

"  My  dear,  there  is  an  upper  window  in  the  prison,  to 
which  Charles  can  sometimes  gain  access  at  three  in  the  after' 
noon.  When  he  can  get  to  it — which  depends  on  many  un- 
certainties and  incidents — he  might  see  you  in  the  street,  he 
thinks,  if  you  stood  in  a  certain  place  that  I  can  show  you. 
But  you  wdll  not  be  able  to  see  him,  my  poor  child,  and  even 
if  you  could,  it  would  be  unsafe  for  you  to  make  a  sign  of 
recognition." 

"  O  show  me  the  place,  my  father,  and  I  will  go  there 
every  day." 

From  that  time,  in  all  weathers,  she  waited  there  two  hours. 
As  the  clock  struck  two,  she  was  there,  and  at  four  she 
turned  resignedly  away.  When  it  was  not  too  wet  or  inclement 
for  her  child  to  be  with  her,  they  went  together;  at  other 
times  she  was  alone  ;  but,  she  never  missed  a  single  day. 

It  was  the  dark  and  dirty  corner  of  a  small  winding  street. 
The  hovel  of  a  cutter  of  wood  into  lengths  for  burning,  was 
the  only  house  at  that  end ;  all  else  was  wall.  On  the  third 
day  of  her  being  there,  he  noticed  her. 

"  Good-day,  citizeness." 

"  Good-day,  citizen." 

This  mode  of  address  was  now  prescribed  by  decree.  It 
had  been  established  voluntarily  some  time  ago,  among  the 
more  thorough  patriots ;  but,  was  now  law  for  everybody. 

"  Walking  here  again,  citizeness  ?  " 

"  You  see  me,  citizen  ?  " 

The  wood-sawyer,  who  was  a  little  man  with  a  redundancy 
of  gesture  (he  had  once  been  a  mender  of  roads),  cast  a  glance 
at  the  prison,  pointed  at  the  prison,  and  putting  his  ten  fin- 
gers before  his  face  to  represent  bars,  peeped  through  them 
jocosely. 

"  But  it's  not  my  business,"  said  he.  And  went  on  sawing 
his  wood. 


26o 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


Next  day  he  was  looking  out  for  her,  and  accosted  her  th« 
moment  she  appeared. 

"  What  ?    Walking  here  again,  citizeness  ?  " 
"  Yes,  citizen." 

"  Ah !  A  child  too !  Your  mother,  is  it  not,  my  little 
citizeness  ? " 

Do  I  say  yes,  mamma  ?  "  whispered  little  Lucie,  drawing 
close  to  her. 

**Yes,  dearest." 
"  Yes,  citizen." 

"  Ah  !  But  it's  not  my  business.  My  work  is  my  business. 
See  my  saw  !  I  call  it  my  Little  Guillotine.  La,  la,  la ;  La, 
la,  la  !    And  off  his  head  comes  !  " 

The  billet  fell  as  he  spoke,  and  he  threw  it  into  a  basket. 

"  I  call  myself  the  Samson  of  the  firewood  guillotine.  See 
here  again  !  Loo,  loo,  loo  ;  Loo,  loo,  loo  !  And  off  her  head 
comes  !  Now,  a  child.  Tickle,  tickle ;  Pickle,  pickle  !  And 
off  its  head  comes.    All  the  family  !  " 

Lucie  shuddered  as  he  threw  two  more  billets  into  his 
basket,  but  it  was  impossible  to  be  there  while  the  wood-sawyer 
was  at  work,  and  not  be  in  his  sight.  Thenceforth,  to  secure 
his  good-will,  she  always  spoke  to  him  first,  and  often  gave 
him  drink-money,  which  he  readily  received. 

He  w^as  an  inquisitive  fellow,  and  sometimes  when  she  had 
quite  forgotten  him  in  gazing  at  the  prison  roof  and  grates, 
and  .in  lifting  her  heart  up  to  her  husband,  she  would  come  to 
herself  to  find  him  looking  at  her,  with  his  knee  on  his  bench 
and  his  saw  stopped  in  its  work.  "  But  it's  not  my  business  !  " 
he  would  generally  say  at  those  times,  and  would  briskly  fall 
to  his  sawing  again. 

In  all  weathers,  in  the  snow  and  frost  of  winter,  in  the 
bitter  winds  of  spring,  in  the  hot  sunshine  of  summer,  in  the 
rains  of  autumn,  and  again  in  the  snow  and  frost  of  winter, 
Lucie  passed  two  hours  of  every  day  at  this  place  ;  and  every 
day  on  leaving  it,  she  kissed  the  prison  wall.  Her  husband 
saw  her  (so  she  learned  from  her  father)  it  might  be,  once  in 
five  or  six  times  :  it  might  be  twice  or  thrice  running  :  it  might 
be,  not  for  a  week  or  a  fortnight  together.  It  was  enough 
that  he  could  and  did  see  her  when  the  chances  served,  and 
on  that  possibility  she  would  have  waited  out  the  day,  seven 
days  a  week. 

These  occupations  brought  her  round  to  the  December 
month,  wherein  her  father  walked  among  the  terrors  with  a 


THE  WOOD-SAWYER. 


261 


Steady  head.  On  a  lightly-snowing  afternoon  she  arrived  at 
the  usual  corner.  It  was  a  day  of  some  wild  rejoicing,  and  a 
festival.  She  had  seen  the  houses,  as  she  came  along,  dec 
orated  with  little  pikes,  and  with  little  red  caps  stuck  upon 
them ;  also,  with  tricolored  ribbons  ;  also,  with  the  standard 
inscription  (tricolored  letters  were  the  favorite).  Republic' 
One  and  Indivisible.  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or 
Death  ! 

The  miserable  shop  of  the  wood-sawyer  was  so  small,  that 
its  whole  surface  furnished  very  indilferent  space  for  this 
legend.  He  had  got  somebody  to  scrawl  it  up  for  him,  how- 
ever, who  had  squeezed  Death  in  with  most  inappropriate 
difficulty.  On  his  house-top,  he  displayed  pike  and  cap,  as  a 
good  citizen  must,  and  in  a  window  he  had  stationed  his  saw 
inscribed  as  his  "Little  Sainte  Guillotine" — for  the  great 
sharp  female  was  by  that  time  popularly  canonized.  His  shop 
was  shut  and  he  was  not  there,  which  was  a  relief  to  Lucie, 
and  left  her  quite  alone. 

But,  he  was  not  far  off,  for  presently  she  heard  a  troubled 
movement  and  a  shouting  coming  along,  which  filled  her  with 
fear.  A  moment  afterwards,  and  a  throng  of  people  came 
pouring  round  the  corner  by  the  prison  wall,  in  the  midst  of 
whom  was  the  wood-sawyer  hand  in  hand  with  The  Vengeance. 
There  could  not  be  fewer  than  five  hundred  people,  and  they 
^ere  dancing  like  five  thousand  demons.  There  was  no  other 
music  than  their  own  singing.  They  danced  to  the  popular 
Revolution  song,  keeping  a  ferocious  time  that  was  like  a 
gnashing  of  teeth  in  unison.  Men  and  women  danced  together, 
women  danced  together,  men  danced  together,  as  hazard  had 
brought  them  together.  At  first,  they  were  a  mere  storm  of* 
coarse  red  caps  and  coarse  woollen  rags  ;  but,  as  they  filled 
the  place,  and  stopped  to  dance  about  Lucie,  some  ghastly 
apparition  of  a  dance-figure  gone  raving  mad  arose  among 
them.  They  advanced,  retreated,  struck  at  one  another's 
hands,  clutched  at  one  another's  heads,  spun  round  alone, 
caught  one  another  and  spun  round  in  pairs,  until  many  of 
them  dropped.  While  those  were  down,  the  rest  linked  hand 
in  hand,  and  all  spun  round  together :  then  the  ring  broke, 
and  in  separate  rings  of  two  and  four  they  turned  and  turned 
until  they  all  stopped  at  once,  began  again,  struck,  clutched, 
and  tore,  and  then  reversed  the  spin,  and  all  spun  round 
another  way.  Suddenly  they  stopped  again,  paused,  struck 
out  the  time  afresh,  formed  into  lines  the  width  of  the  public 


A  7'ALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


way,  and,  with  their  heads  low  down  and  their  hands  high  up^ 
swooped  screaming  off.  No  fight  could  have  been  half  so 
terrible  as  this  dance.  It  was  so  emphatically  a  fallen  sport — ■ 
a  something,  once  innocent,  delivered  over  to  all  devilry — a 
healthy  pastime  changed  into  a  means  of  angering  the  blood. 
'  bewildering  the  senses,  and  steeling  the  heart.  Such  grace 
as  was  visible  in  it,  made  it  the  uglier,  showing  how  warped 
and  perverted  all  things  good  by  nature  were  become.  The 
maidenly  bosom  bared  to  this,  the  pretty  almost-child's  head 
thus  distracted,  the  delicate  foot  mincing  in  this  slough  of 
blood  and  dirt,  were  types  of  the  disjointed  time. 

This  was  the  Carmagnole.  As  it  passed,  leaving  Lucie 
frightened  and  bewildered  in  the  doorway  of  the  wood-sawyer's 
house,  the  feathery  snow  fell  as  quietly  and  lay  as  white  and 
soft,  as  if  it  had  never  been. 

"  O  my  father !  "  for  he  stood  before  her  when  she  lifted 
up  the  eyes  she  had  momentarily  darkened  with  her  hand  \ 
"  such  a  cruel,  bad  sight." 

"  I  know,  my  dear,  I  know.  I  have  seen  it  many  times. 
Don't  be  frightened !    Not  one  of  them  would  harm  you." 

"  I  am  not  frightened  for  myself,  my  father.  But  when  I 
think  of  my  husband,  and  the  mercies  of  these  people  " 

"  We  will  set  him  above  their  mercies  very  soon.  I  left 
him  climbing  to  the  window,  and  I  came  to  tell  you.  There 
is  no  one  here  to  see.  You  m^y  kiss  your  hand  towards  that 
highest  shelving  roof." 

"  I  do  so,  father,  and  I  send  him  my  Soul  with  it !  " 

"  You  cannot  see  him,  my  poor  dear  ?  " 

"No,  father,"  said  Lucie,  yearning  and  weeping  as  she 
kissed  hej:  hand,  "  no." 

A  footstep  in  the  snow.  Madame  Defarge.  "  I  salute 
you,  citizeness,"  from  the  Doctor.  "  I  salute  you,  citizen." 
This  in  passing.  Nothing  more.  Madame  Defarge  gone, 
like  a  shadow  over  the  white  road. 

"  Give  me  your  arm,  my  love.  Pass  from  here  with  an  air 
of  cheerfulness  and  courage,  for  his  sake.  That  was  well 
done;"  they  had  left  the  spot;  "it  shall  not  be  in  vain. 
Charles  is  summoned  for  to-morrow." 

"  For  to-morrow  !  " 

"  There  is  no  time  to  lose.  I  am  well  prepared,  but  there 
are  precautions  to  be  taken,  that  could  not  be  taken  until  he 
was  actually  summoned  before  the  Tribunal.  He  has  not  re- 
ceived the  notice  yet,  but  I  know  that  he  will  presently  be 


TRIUMPH, 


263 


smnmoned  for  to-morrow,  and  removed  to  the  Conciergerie  \ 
I  have  timely  information.    You  are  not  afraid  ? 

She  could  scarcely  answer,  "  I  trust  in  you." 

"  Do  so,  implicitly.  Your  suspense  is  nearly  ended,  mj 
darling ;  he  shall  be  restored  to  you  within  a  few  hours ;  I 
have  eiicompassed  him  with  every  protection.  I  must  see 
Lorry.'' 

He  stonped.  There  was  a  heavy  lumbering  of  wheels 
within  hearing.  They  both  knew  too  well  what  it  meant. 
One.  Two.  Three.  Three  tumbrils  faring  away  with  their 
dread  loads  over  the  hushing  snow. 

^  I  must  see  Lorry,''  the  Doctor  repeated,  turning  hei 
another  way. 

The  staunch  old  gentleman  was  still  in  his  trust ;  had 
never  left  it.  He  and  his  books  were  in  frequent  requisition 
as  to  property  confiscated  and  made  national.  What  he  could 
save  for  the  owners,  he  saved.  No  better  man  living  to  hold 
fast  by  what  Tellson's  had  in  keeping,  and  to  hold  his  peace. 

A  murky  red  and  yellow  sky,  and  a  rising  mist  from  the 
Seine,  denoted  the  approach  of  darkness.  It  was  almost 
dark  when  they  arrived  at  the  Bank.  The  stately  residence 
of  Monseigneur  was  altogether  blighted  and  deserted.  Above 
a  heap  of  dust  and  ashes  in  the  court,  ran  the  letters  :  Na- 
tional Property.  Republic  One  and  Indivisible,  Liberty, 
Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death  ! 

Who  could  that  be  with  Mr.  Lorry — the  owner  of  the 
ri«iing-coat  upon  the  chair — who  must  not  be  seen  ?  From 
whom  newly  arrived,  did  he  come  out,  agitated  and  sur- 
prised, to  take  his  favorite  in  his  arms  ?  To  whom  did  he  ap- 
pear to  repeat  her  faltering  words,  when,  raising  his  voice 
and  turning  his  head  towards  the  door  of  the  room  from  which 
he  had  issued,  he  said  :  "  Removed  to  the  Conciergerie,  and 
summoned  for  to-morrow  ?  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

TRIUMPH. 

The  dread  Tribunal  of  five  Judges,  Public  Prosecutor,  and 
determined  Jury,  sat  every  day.    Their  lists  went  forth  every 


264 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


evening,  and  were  read  out  by  the  jailers  of  the  various 
prisons  to  their  prisoners.     The  standard  jailer-joke  was, 
Come  out  and  listen  to  the  Evening   Paper,  you  inside 
there  ! 

"  Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay  !  " 

So  at  last  began  the  Evening  Paper  at  La  Force. 

When  a  name  was  called,  its  owner  stepped  apart  into  a 
spot  reserved  for  those  who  were  announced  as  being  thus 
fatally  recorded.  Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,  had  rea- 
son to  know  the  usage,  he  had  seen  hundreds  pass  away  so. 

His  bloated  jailer,  who  wore  spectacles  to  read  with, 
glanced  over  them  to  assure  himself  that  he  had  taken  his 
place,  and  went  through  the  list,  making  a  similar  short  pause 
at  each  name.  There  were  twenty-three  names,  but  only 
twenty  were  responded  to  ;  for  one  of  the  prisoners  so  sum- 
moned had  died  in  jail  and  been  forgotten,  and  two  had 
already  been  guillotined  and  forgotten.  The  list  was  read, 
in  the  vaulted  chamber  where  Darnay  had  seen  the  asso- 
ciated prisoners  on  the  night  of  his  arrival.  Every  one  of 
those  had  perished  in  the  massacre  ;  every  human  creature 
he  had  since  cared  for  and  parted  with,  had  died  on  the 
scaffold. 

There  were  hurried  words  of  farewell  and  kindness,  but 
the  parting  was  soon  over.  It  was  the  incident  of  every  day, 
and  the  society  of  La  Force  were  engaged  in  the  preparation 
of  some  games  of  forfeits  and  a  little  concert,  for  that  even- 
ing. They  crowded  to  the  grates  and  shed  tears  there  ;  but, 
twenty  places  in  the  projected  entertainments  had  to  be  re- 
filled, and  the  time  was,  at  best,  short  to  the  lock-up  hour, 
when  the  common  rooms  and  corridors  would  be  delivered 
over  to  the  great  dogs  who  kept  watch  there  through  the  night. 
The  prisoners  were  far  from  insensible  or  unfeeling ;  their 
ways  arose  out  of  the  condition  of  the  time.  Similarly, 
though  with  a  subtle  difference,  a  species  of  fervor  or  intoxi- 
cation, known,  without  doubt,  to  have  led  some  persons  to 
brave  the  guillotine  unnecessarily,  and  to  die  by  it,  was  not 
mere  boastfulness,  but  a  wild  infection  of  the  wildly  shaken 
public  mind.  In  seasons  of  pestilence,  some  of  us  will  have 
a  secret  attraction  to  the  disease — a  terrible  passing  inclina- 
tion to  die  of  it.  And  all  of  us  have  like  wonders  hidden  in 
our  breasts,  only  needing  circumstances  to  evoke  them. 

The  passage  to  the  Conciergerie  was  short  and  dark ;  the 
night  in  its  vermin-haunted  cells  was  long  and  cold.  Next 


TRIUMPIT. 


265 


day,  fifteen  prisoners  were  put  to  the  bar  before  Charles  Dar- 
nay's  name  was  called.  All  the  fifteen  were  condemned,  and 
the  trials  of  the  whole  occupied  an  hour  and  a  half. 

Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,"  was  at  length  ar- 
raigned. 

His  judges  sat  upon  the  Bench  in  feathered  hats ;  but  the 
rough  red  cap  and  tricolored  cockade  was  the  head-dress 
otherwise  prevailing.  Looking  at  the  Jury  and  the  turbulent 
audience,  he  might  have  thought  that  the  usual  order  of  things 
w^as  reversed,  and  that  the  felons  were  trying  the  honest  men. 
The  lowest,  crudest,  and  worst  populace  of  a  city,  never  with- 
out its  quantity  of  low,  cruel,  and  bad,  were  the  directing 
spirits  of  the  scene  ;  noisily  commenting,  applauding,  disap- 
proving, anticipating,  and  precipitating  the  result,  without  a 
check.  Of  the  men,  the  greater  part  were  armed  in  various 
ways  ;  of  the  women,  some  wore  knives,  some  daggers,  some 
ate  and  drank  as  they  looked  on,  many  knitted.  Among 
these  last,  was  one,  with  a  spare  piece  of  knitting  under  her 
arm  as  she  worked.  She  was  in  a  front  row,  by  the  side  of  a 
man  whom  he  had  never  seen  since  his  arrival  at  the  Barrier, 
but  whom  'he  directly  remembered  as  Defarge.  He  noticed 
that  she  once  or  twice  whispered  in  his  ear,  and  that  she 
seemed  to  be  his  wife ;  but  what  he  most  noticed  in  the  two 
figures  was,  that  although  they  were  posted  as  close  to  him- 
self as  they  could  be,  they  never  looked  towards  him.  They 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  something  with  a  dogged  determina- 
tion, and  they  looked  at  the  Jury,  but  at  nothing  else.  Under 
the  President  sat  Doctor  Manette,  in  his  usual  quiet  dress. 
As  well  as  the  prisoner  could  see,  he  and  Mr.  Lorry  were  the 
only  men  there,  unconnected  with  the  Tribunal,  who  wore 
their  usual  clothes,  and  had  not  assumed  the  coarse  garb  of 
the  Carmagnble. 

Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,  was  accused  by  the 
public  prosecutor  as  an  emigrant,  whose  life  was  forfeit  to  the 
Republic,  under  the  decree  which  banished  all  emigrants  on 
pain  of  Death.  It  was  nothing  that  the  decree  bore  date  since 
his  return  to  France.  There  he  was,  and  there  was  the  decree ; 
he  had  been  taken  in  France,  and  his  head  was  demanded. 

"  Take  off  his  head  !  cried  the  audience.  "  An  enemy 
to  the  Republic  ! " 

The  President  rang  his  bell  to  silence  those  cries,  and 
asked  the  prisoner  whether  it  was  not  true  that  he  had  lived 
many  years  in  England  ? 


266 


A  TALE  OF  TIVO  CITIES. 


Undoubtedly  it  was. 

Was  he  not  an  emigrant  then?    What  did  he  call  himself! 
Not  an  emigrant,  he  hoped,  within  the  sense  and  spirit  of 
the  law. 

Why  not  ?  the  President  desired  to  know. 

Because  he  had  voluntarily  relinquished  a  title  that  was 
distasteful  to  him,  and  a  station  that  was  distasteful  to  him, 
and  had  left  his  country — he  submitted  before  the  word 
emigrant  in  the  present  acceptation  by  the  Tribunal  was  in 
use — to  live  by  his  own  industry  in  England,  rather  than  on 
the  industry  of  the  overladen  people  of  France. 

What  proof  had  he  of  this. 

He  handed  in  the  names  of  two  witnesses  ;  Th^ophile 
Gabelie,  and  Alexandre  Manette. 

But  he  had  married  in  England  ?  the  President  reminded 
him. 

True,  but  not  an  English  woman. 

A  citizeness  of  France  * 

Yes.    By  birth. 

Her  name  and  family  1 

"Lucie  Manette,  only  daughter  of  Doctor  Manette,  the 
good  physician  who  sits  there." 

This  answer  had  a  happy  effect  upon  the  audience.  Cries 
in  exaltation  of  the  well-known  good  physician  rent  the  hall. 
So  capriciously  were  the  people  moved,  that  tears  immediately 
rolled  down  several  ferocious  countenances  which  had  been 
glaring  at  the  prisoner  a  moment  before,  as  if  with  impatience 
to  pluck  him  out  into  the  streets  and  kill  him. 

On  these  few  steps  of  his  dangerous  way,  Charles  Darnay 
had  set  his  foot  according  to  Doctor  Manette's  reiterated  in- 
structions. The  same  cautious  counsel  directed  every  step 
that  lay  before  him,  and  had  prepared  every  inch  of  his  road. 

The  President  asked,  why  had  he  returned  to  France  when 
he  did,  and  not  sooner? 

He  had  not  returned  sooner,  he  replied,  simply  because  he 
had  no  means  of  living  in  France,  save  those  he  had  resigned  j 
whereas,  in  England,  he  lived  by  giving  instruction  in  the 
French  language  and  literature.  He  had  returned  when  he 
did,  on  the  pressing  and  written  entreaty  of  a  French  citizen, 
who  represented  that  his  life  was  endangered  by  his  absence. 
He  had  come  back,  to  save  a  citizen's  life,  and  to  bear  his 
testimony,  at  whatever  personal  hazard,  to  the  truth.  Was 
that  criminal  in  the  eyes  of  the  Republic  ? 


TRIUMPH, 


267 


The  populace  cried  enthusiastically,  "  No  !  "  and  the  Pres- 
ident  rang  his  bell  to  quiet  them.  Which  it  did  not,  for  they 
continued  to  cry  "  No  !  "  until  they  left  off,  of  their  own  will. 

The  President  required  the  name  of  that  citizen  ?  The 
accused  explained  that  the  citizen  was  his  first  witness.  He 
also  referred  with  confidence  to  the  citizen's  letter,  which  had 
been  taken  from  him  at  the  Barrier,  but  which  he  did  not 
doubt  would  be  found  among  the  papers  then  before  the  Pres- 
ident. 

The  Doctor  had  taken  care  that  it  should  be  there — had 
assured  him  that  it  would  be  there — and  at  this  stage  of  the 
proceedings  it  was  produced  and  read.  Citizen  Gabelle  was 
called  to  confirm  it,  and  did  so.  Citizen  Gabelle  hinted,  with 
infinite  delicacy  and  politeness,  that  in  the  pressure  of  busi- 
ness imposed  on  the  Tribunal  by  the  multitude  of  enemies  of 
the  Republic  wdth  which  it  had  to  deal,  he  had  been  slightly 
overlooked  in  his  prison  of  the  Abbaye — in  fact,  had  rather 
passed  out  of  the  Tribunal's  patriotic  remembrance — until 
three  days  ago  ;  when  he  had  been  summoned  before  it,  and 
had  been  set  at  liberty  on  the  Jury's  declaring  themselves  satis- 
fied that  the  accusation  against  him  was  answered,  as  to  himself, 
by  the  surrender  of  the  citizen  Evremonde,  called  Darnay* 

Doctor  Manette  was  next  questioned.  His  high  personal 
popularity,  and  the  clearness  of  his  answers,  made  a  great  im- 
pression ;  but,  as  he  proceeded,  as  he  showed  that  the  Accused 
was  his  first  friend  on  his  release  from  his  long  imprisonment  \ 
that,  the  accused  had  remained  in  England,  always  faithful 
and  devoted  to  his  daughter  and  himself  in  their  exile  ;  that, 
so  far  from  being  in  favor  with  the  Aristocrat  government 
there,  he  had  actually  been  tried  for  his  life  by  it,  as  the  foe 
of  England  and  friend  of  the  United  States — as  he  brought 
these  circumstances  into  view,  with  the  greatest  discretion  and 
with  the  st^ightforward  force  of  truth  and  earnestness,  the 
Jury  and  the  populace  became  one.  At  last,  when  he  ap- 
pealed by  name  to  Monsieur  Lorry,  an  English  gentleman  then 
and  there  present,  who,  like  himself,  had  been  a  witness  on 
that  English  trial  and  could  corroborate  his  account  of  it,  the 
Jury  declared  that  they  had  heard  enough,  and  that  they  w^ere 
ready  with  their  votes  if  the  President  were  content  to  receive 
them. 

At  every  vote  (the  Jurj-men  voted  aloud  and  individually), 
the  populace  set  up  a  shout  of  applause.  All  the  voices  were 
in  the  prisoLcr's  favor,  and  the  President  declared  him  free. 


268 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Then,  began  one  of  those  extraordinary  scenes  with  which 
the  populace  sometimes  gratitled  their  fickleness,  or  theii 
better  impulses  towards  generosity  and  mercy,  or  which  they 
regarded  as  some  set-off  against  their  swollen  account  of  cruel 
rage.  No  man  can  decide  now  to  which  of  these  motives  such 
extraordinary  scenes  were  referable ;  it  is  probable,  to  a 
blending  of  all  the  three,  with  the  second  predominating.  No 
sooner  was  the  acquittal  pronounced,  than  tears  were  shed  as 
freely  as  blood  at  another  time,  and  such  fraternal  embraces 
were  bestowed  upon  the  prisoner  by  as  many  of  both  sexes  as 
could  rush  at  him,  that  after  his  long  and  unwholesome  con- 
finement he  was  in  danger  of  fainting  from  exhaustion  ;  none 
the  less  because  he  knew  very  well,  that  the  very  same  people, 
carried  by  another  current,  would  have  rushed  at  him  with  the 
very  same  intensity,  to  rend  him  to  pieces  and  strew  him  over 
the  streets. 

His  removal,  to  make  way  for  other  accused  persons  who 
were  to  be  tried,  rescued  him  from  these  caresses  for  the  mo- 
ment. Five  were  to  be  tried  together,  next,  as  enemies  of  the 
Republic,  forasmuch  as  they  had  not  assisted  it  by  word  or 
deed.  So  quick  was  the  Tribunal  to  compensate  itself  and 
the  nation  for  a  chance  lost,  that  these  five  came  down  to  him 
before  he  left  the  place,  condemned  to  die  within  twenty-four 
hours.  The  first  of  them  told  him  so,  with  the  customary 
prison  sign  of  Death — a  raised  finger — and  they  all  added  in 
words,  "  Long  live  the  Republic  !  " 

The  five  had  had,  it  is  true,  no  audience  to  lengthen  their 
proceedings,  for  when  he  and  Doctor  Manette  emerged  from 
the  gate,  there  was  a  great  crowd  about  it,  in  which  there 
seemed  to  be  every  face  he  had  seen  in  Court — except  two, 
for  which  he  looked  in  vain.  On  his  coming  out,  the  con- 
course made  at  him  anew,  weeping,  embracing,  and  shouting, 
all  by  turns  and  all  together,  until  the  very  tide^f  the  river 
on  the  bank  of  which  the  mad  scene  was  acted,  seemed  to 
run  mad,  like  the  people  on  the  shore. 

They  put  him  into  a  great  chair  they  had  among  them, 
and  which  they  had  taken  either  out  of  the  Court  itself,  or 
one  of  its  rooms  or  passages.  Over  the  chair  they  had  thrown 
a  red  flag,  and  to  the  back  of  it  they  had  bound  a  pike  with  a 
red  cap  on  its  top.  In  this  car  of  triumph,  not  even  the  Doc- 
tor's entreaties  could  prevent  his  being  carried  to  his  home 
on  men'$  shoulders,  with  a  confused  sea  of  red  caps  heaving 
about  him,  and  casting  up  to  sight  from  the  stormy  deep  such 


TRIUMPH, 


269 


wrecks  of  faces,  that  he  more  than  once  misdoubted  his  mind 
being  in  confusion,  and  that  he  was  in  the  tumbril  on  his  way 
to  the  Guillotine. 

In  wild  dreamlike  procession,  embracing  whom  they 
met  and  pointing  him  out,  they  carried  him  on.  Reddening 
the  snowy  streets  with  the  prevailing  Republican  color,  in 
winding  and  tramping  through  them,  as  they  had  reddened 
them  below  the  snow  with  a  deeper  dye,  they  carried  him 
thus  into  the  court-yard  of  the  building  where  he  lived.  Hei 
father  had  gone  on  before,  to  prepare  her,  and  when  her  hus- 
band stood  upon  his  feet,  she  dropped  insensible  in  his  arn-is. 

As  he  held  her  to  his  heart  and  turned  her  beautiful 
head  between  his  face  and  the  brawling  crowd,  so  that  his 
tears  and  her  lips  might  come  together  unseen,  a  few  of  the 
people  fell  to  dancing.  Instantly,  all  the  rest  fell  to  dancing, 
and  the  court-yard  overflowed  with  the  Carmagnole.  Then, 
they  elevated  into  the  vacant  chair  a  young  woman  from  the 
crowd  to  be  carried  as  the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  and  then  swel- 
ling and  overflowing  out  into  the  adjacent  streets,  and  along 
the  river's  bank,  and  over  the  bridge,  the  Carmagnole  ab- 
sorbed them  every  one  and  whirled  themx  away. 

After  grasping  the  Doctor's  hand,  as  he  stood  victorious 
and  proud  before  him  ;  after  grasping  the  hand  of  Mr.  Lorry, 
who  came  panting  in  breathless  from  his  struggle  against  the 
waterspout  of  the  Carmagnole  ;  after  kissing  little  Lucie,  who 
was  lifted  up  to  clasp  her  arms  round  his  neck ;  and  after 
embracing  the  ever  zealous  and  faithful  Pross  who  lifted  her ; 
he  took  his  v/ife  in  his  arms,  and  carried  her  up  to  their 
rooms. 

"  Lucie  !    My  own  !    I  am  safe.'' 

"  O  dearest  Charles,  let  me  thank  God  for  this  on  my 
knees  as  I  have  prayed  to  Him.'' 

They  all  reverently  bowed  their  heads  and  hearts.  When 
she  was  again  in  his  arms,  he  said  to  her : 

"  And  now  speak  to  your  father,  dearest.  No  other  man 
in  all  this  France  could  have  done  what  he  has  done  for  me." 

She  laid  her  head  upon  her  father's  breast,  as  she  had  laid 
his  poor  head  on  her  own  breast,  long,  long  ago.  He  was 
happy  in  the  return  he  had  made  her,  he  was  recompensed 
for  his  suffering,  he  was  proud  of  his  strength.  "  You  must 
not  be  weak,  my  darling,"  he  remonstrated  j  "  don't  tremble 
so.    I  have  saved  him," 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


CHAFf  ER  m 

A  KNOCK  AT  THE  DOOR. 

"  I  HAVE  saved  him."   It  was  not  another  of  the  dreama 

in  which  he  had  often  come  back  ;  he  was  really  here.  And 
yet  his  wife  trembled,  and  a  vague  but  heavy  fear  was  upon 
her. 

All  the  air  around  was  so  thick  and  dark,  the  people  were 
so  passionately  revengeful  and  fitful,  the  innocent  were  so 
constantly  put  to  death  on  vague  suspicion  and  black  malice, 
it  was  so  impossible  to  forget  that  many  as  blameless  as  her 
husband  and  as  dear  to  others  as  he  was  to  her,  every  day 
shared  the  fate  from  which  he  had  been  clutched,  that  her 
heart  could  not  be  as  lightened  of  its  load  as  she  felt  it  ought 
to  be.  The  shadows  of  the  wintry  afternoon  were  beginning 
to  fall,  and  even  now  the  dreadful  carts  were  rolling  through 
the  streets.  Her  mind  pursued  them,  looking  for  him  among 
the  Condemned ;  and  then  she  dung  closer  to  his  real  pres- 
ence and  trembled  more. 

Her  father,  cheering  her,  showed  a  compassionate  superi- 
ority to  this  woman's  weakness,  which  was  wonderful  to  see. 
No  garret,  no  shoemaking,  no  One  Hundred  and  Five,  North 
Tower,  now !  He  had  accomplished  the  task  he  had  set  him- 
self,  his  promise  was  redeemed,  he  had  saved  Charles.  Let 
them  all  lean  upon  him. 

Their  housekeeping  was  of  a  very  frugal  kind :  not  only 
because  that  was  the  safest  way  of  life,  involving  the  least 
offence  to  the  people,  but  because  they  were  not  rich,  and 
Charles,  throughout  his  imprisonment,  had  had  to  pay  heavily 
for  his  bad  food,  ana  for  his  guard,  and  towards  the  living  of 
the  poorer  prisoners.  Partly  on  this  account,  and  partly  to 
avoid  a  domestic  spy,  they  kept  no  servant ;  the  citizen  and 
citizeness  who  acted  as  porters  at  the  court-yard  gate,  ren- 
dered them  occasional  service ;  and  Jerry  (almost  wholly 
transferred  to  them  by  Mr.  Lorry)  had  become  their  daily 
retainer,  and  had  his  bed  there  every  night. 

It  was  an  ordinance  of  the  Republic  One  and  Indivisible 
of  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death,  that  on  the  door  ot 


A  KNOCK  AT  THE  DOOR 


272 


door-post  of  every  house,  the  name  of  every  inmate  must  be 
legibly  inscribed  in  letters  of  a  certain  size,  at  a  certain  co;v 
venient  height  from  the  ground.  Mr.  Jerry  Cruncher's  name, 
therefore,  duly  embellished  the  doorpost  down  below ;  and, 
as  the  afternoon  shadows  deepened,  the  owner  of  that  name 
himself  appeared,  from  overlooking  a  painter  whom  Doctor 
Manette  had  employed  to  add  to  the  list  the  name  of  Charles; 
Evremonde,  called  Darnay. 

In  the  universal  fear  and  distrust  that  darkened  the  time, 
all  the  usual  harmless  ways  of  life  were  changed.  In  the  Doc- 
tor's little  household,  as  in  very  many  others,  the  articles  of 
daily  consumption  that  were  wanted  were  purchased  every 
evening,  in  small  quantities  and  at  various  small  shops.  To 
avoid  attracting  notice,  and  to  give  as  little  occasion  as  pos- 
sible for  talk  and  envy,  was  the  general  desire. 

For  some  months  past,  Miss  Pross  and  Mr.  Cruncher  had 
discharged  the  office  of  purveyors ;  the  former  carrying  the 
money ;  the  latter,  the  basket.  Every  afternoon  at  about  the 
time  when  the  public  lamps  were  lighted,  they  fared  forth  on 
this  duty,  and  made  and  brought  home  such  purchases  as 
were  needful.  Although  Miss  Pross,  through  her  long  asso- 
ciation with  a  French  family,  might  have  known  as  much  of 
their  language  as  of  her  own,  if  she  had  had  a  mind,  she  had 
no  mind  in  that  direction  ;  consequently  she  knew  no  more 
of  that  "  nonsense  (as  she  was  pleased  to  call  it)  than  Mr. 
Cruncher  did.  So  her  manner  of  marketing  was  to  plump  a 
noun-substantive  at  the  head  of  a  shopkeeper  without  any  in- 
troduction in  the  nature  of  an  article,  and,  if  it  happened  not 
to  be  the  name  of  the  thing  she  wanted,  to  look  round  for 
that  thing,  lay  hold  of  it,  and  hold  on  by  it  until  the  bargain 
was  concluded.  She  always  made  a  bargain  for  it,  by  holding 
up,  as  a  statement  of  its  just  price,  one  finger  less  than  the 
merchant  held  up,  whatever  his  number  might  be. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Cruncher,"  said  Miss  Pross,  whose  eyes  were 
red  with  felicity  ;     if  you  are  ready,  I  am." 

Jerry  hoarsely  professed  himself  at  Miss  Press's  service. 
He  had  worn  all  his  rust  off  long  ago,  but  nothing  would  file 
his  spiky  head  down. 

"  There's  all  manner  of  things  wanted,"  said  Miss  Pross, 
"  and  we  shall  have  a  precious  time  of  it.  We  want  wine., 
among  the  rest.  Nice  toasts  these  Redheads  will  be  drink- 
ing, wherever  we  buy^it." 

"  It  will  be  much  the  same  to  your  knowledge,  I  should 


.^72 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


think/'  retorted  Jerry,  "  whether  they  drink  your  health  or  the 
Old  Un's.'^ 

Who's  he  ?  "  said  Miss  Pross. 

Mr.  Cruncher,  with  some  diffidence,  explained  himself  as 
meaning  "  Old  Nick's." 

"  Ha !  "  said  Miss  Pross,  it  doesn't  need  an  interpreter  to 
explain  the  meaning  of  these  creatures.  They  have  but  one, 
and  it's  Midnight  Murder,  and  Mischief." 

"  Hush,  dear !    Pray,  pray,  be  cautious  !  "  cried  Lucie. 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,  I'll  be  cautious,"  said  Miss  Pross ;  "but  1 
may  say  among  ourselves,  that  I  do  hope  there  will  be  no 
oniony  and  tobaccoey  smotherings  in  form  of  embracings  all 
round,  going  on  in  the  streets.  Now,  Ladybird,  never  you 
stir  from  that  fire  till  I  come  back  !  Take  care  of  the  dear 
husband  you  have  recovered,  and  don't  move  your  pretty  head 
from  his  shoulder  as  you  have  it  now,  till  you  see  me  again ! 
May  I  ask  a  question.  Doctor  Manette,  before  I  go  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  may  take  that  liberty,"  the  Doctor  answered, 
smiling. 

"  For  gracious  sake,  don't  talk  about  Liberty ;  we  have 
quite  enough  of  that,"  said  Miss  Pross. 

"  Hush,  dear  !    Again  ?  "  Lucie  remonstrated. 

"  Well,  my  sweet,"  said  Miss  Pross,  nodding  her  head  em- 
phatically, "  the  short  and  the  long  of  it  is,  that  I  am  a  subject 
of  His  Most  Gracious  Majesty  King  George  the  Third : "  Miss 
Pross  curtseyed  at  the  name ;  "  and  as  such,  my  maxim  is, 
Confound  their  politics.  Frustrate  their  knavish  tricks,  On  him 
our  hopes  we  fix,  God  save  the  King  ! " 

Mr.  Cruncher,  in  an  excess  of  loyalty,  growlingly  repeated 
the  words  after  Miss  Pross,  like  somebody  at  church, 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  so  much  of  the  Englishman  in  you, 
though  I  wish  you  had  never  taken  that  cold  in  your  voice," 
said  Miss  Pross,  approvingly.  "But  the  question,  Doctoi 
Manette.  Is  there  " — it  was  the  good  creature's  way  to  affect 
to  make  light  of  anything  that  was  a  great  anxiety  with  them 
all,  and  to  come  at  it  in  this  chance  manner — "  is  there  any 
prospect  yet,  of  our  getting  out  of  this  place  ?  " 

"I  fear  not  yet.  It  would  be  dangerous  for  Charles 
yet." 

"  Fleigh-ho-hum  !  "  said  Miss  Pross,  cheerfully  repressing 
a  sigh  as  she  glanced  at  her  darling's  golden  hair  in  the  light 
of  the  fire,  "  then  we  must  have  patience  and  wait :  that's  all. 
We  must  hold  up  our  heads  and  fight  low,  as  my  brother 


A  KNOCK  A  T  THE  DOOR, 


Solomon  used  to  say.    Now,  Mr.  Cruncher ! — Don't  you  move, 

Ladybird  ! 

They  went  out,  leaving  Lucie,  and  her  husband,  her  father, 
and  the  child,  by  a  brigh  fire.  Mr.  Lorry  was  expected  back 
presently  from  the  Banking  House.  Miss  Pross  had  lighted 
the  lamp,  but  had  put  it  aside  in  a  corner,  that  they  might 
enjoj*  the  fire-light  un  isturbed.  Little  Lucie  sat  by  her 
grandfather  with  her  hands  clasped  through  his  arm :  and  he, 
in  a  tone  not  rising  much  above  a  whisper,  began  to  tell  her 
a  story  of  a  great  and  powerful  Fairy  who  had  opened  a  prison- 
wall  and  let  out  a  captive  who  had  once  done  the  Fairy  a  ser- 
vice. All  was  subdued  and  quiet,  and  Lucie  was  more  at  ease 
than  she  had  been. 

"  What  is  that  ? "  she  cried,  all  at  once. 
My  dear !  "  said  her  father,  stopping  in  his  story,  and 
laying  his  hand  on  hers,  "  command  yourself.    What  a  dis- 
ordered state  you  are  in  !    The  least  thing — nothing — startles 
you  !     You^  your  father's  daughter  !  " 

I  thought,  my  father,"  said  Lucie,  excusing  herself,  with 
a  pale  face  and  in  a  faltering  voice,  "  that  I  heard  strange 
feet  upon  the  stairs." 

"  My  love,  the  staircase  is  as  still  as  Death." 

As  he  said  the  word,  a  blow  was  struck  upon  the  door. 

"  Oh  father,  father.  What  can  this  be  !  Hide  Charles. 
Save  him  !  " 

*'My  child,"  said  the  Doctor,  rising,  and  laying  his  hand 
upon  her  shoulder,  "  I  have  saved  him.  What  weakness  is 
this,  my  dear  !    Let  me  go  to  the  door." 

He  took  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  crossed  the  two  intervening 
outer  rooms,  and  opened  it.  A  rude  clattering  of  feet  over 
the  floor,  and  four  rough  men  in  red  caps,  armed  with  sabres 
and  pistols,  entered  the  room. 

"  The  Citizen  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,"  said  the  first. 

"  Who  seeks  him  ?  "  answered  Darnay. 

"  I  seek  him.  We  seek  him.  I  know  you,  Evremonde  ; 
T  saw  you  before  the  Tribunal  to-day.  You  are  again  the 
prisoner  of  the  RepubHc." 

The  four  surrounded  him,  where  he  stood  with  his  wife 
and  child  clinging  to  him. 

"  Tell  me  how  and  why  am  I  again  a  prisoner  ? " 

"  It  is  enough  that  you  return  straight  to  the  Conciergerie, 
and  will  know  to-morrow.    You  are  summoned  for  to-morrow.'* 

Dr.  Manette,  whom  this  visitation  had  so  turned  into  stone, 


274 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


that  he  stood  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  as  if  he  were  a  statue 
made  to  hold  it,  moved  after  these  words  were  spoken,  put  the 
lamp  down,  and  confronting  the  speaker,  and  taking  him,  not 
ungently,  by  the  loose  front  of  his  red  woollen  shirt,  said  : 

"  You  know  him,  you  have  said.    Do  you  know  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  know  you.  Citizen  Doctor." 

"  We  all  know  you,  Citizen  Doctor,"  said  the  other  three 

He  looked  abstractedly  from  one  to  another,  and  said,  in  a 
lower  voice,  after  a  pause  : 

"  Will  you  answer  his  question  to  me  then  ?  How  does 
this  happen  ?  " 

"Citizen  Doctor,"  said  the  first,  reluctantly,  "he  has  been 
denounced  to  the  Section  of  Saint  Antoine.  TJiis  citizen," 
pointing  out  the  second  who  had  entered,  "  is  from  Saint  An- 
toine." 

The  citizen  here  indicated  nodded  his  head,  and  added : 
"  He  is  accused  by  Saint  Antoine." 
"  Of  what  ?  "  asked  the  Doctor. 

"  Citizen  Doctor,"  said  the  first,  with  his  former  reluc- 
tance, "ask  no  more.  If  the  Republic  demands  sacrifices 
from  you  without  doubt  you  as  a  good  patriot  will  be  happy  to 
make  them.  The  Republic  goes  before  all.  The  People  is 
supreme.    Evremonde,  we  are  pressed." 

"One  word,"  the  Doctor  entreated.  "Will  you  tell  me 
who  denounced  him  ?  " 

"  It  is  against  rule,"  answered  the  first;  "but  you  can  ask 
him  of  Saint  Antoine  here." 

The  Doctor  turned  his  eyes  upon  that  man.  Who  moved 
uneasily  on  his  feet,  rubbed  his  beard  a  little,  and  at  length 
said  : 

"Well !  Truly  it  is  against  rule.  But  he  is  denounced — • 
and  gravely — by  the  Citizen  and  Citizeness  Defarge.  And  by 
one  other." 

"  What  other?" 

"  Do  you  ask.  Citizen  Doctor  ?  " 
"  Yes." 

"  Then,"  said  he  of  Saint  Antoine,  with  a  strange  look^ 
"you  will  be  answered  to-morrow.    Now,  I  am  dumb  !  " 


A  HAND  A  T  CARDS. 


275 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

A    HANDAT  CARDS. 

Happily  unconscious  of  the  new  calamity  at  home,  Miss 
Pross  threaded  her  way  along  the  narrow  streets  and  crossed 
the  river  by  the  bridge  of  the  Pont-Neuf,  reckoning  in 
her  mind  the  number  of  indispensable  purchases  she  had  to 
make.  Mr.  Cruncher,  with  the  basket,  walked  at  her  side. 
They  both  looked  to  the  right  and  to  the  left  into  most  of  the 
shops  they  passed,  had  a  wary  eye  for  all  gregarious  assem- 
blages of  people,  and  turned  out  of  their  road  to  avoid  any 
very  excited  group  of  talkers.  It  was  a  raw  evening,  and  the 
misiy  river,  blurred  to  the  eye  with  blazing  lights  and  to  the 
ear  with  harsh  noises,  showed  where  the  barges  were  stationed 
in  which  the  smiths  worked,  making  guns  for  the  Army  of  the 
Republic.  Woe  to  the  man  who  played  tricks  with  that  Army, 
or  got  undeserved  promotion  in  it !  Better  for  him  that  his 
beard  had  never  grown,  for  the  National  Razor  shaved  him 
close. 

Having  purchased  a  few  small  articles  of  grocery,  and  a 
measure  of  oil  for  the  lamp.  Miss  Pross  bethought  herself  of 
the  wine  they  wanted.  After  peeping  into  several  wine-shops, 
she  stopped  at  the  sign  of  The  Good  Republican  Brutus  of 
Antiquity,  not  far  from  the  National  Palace,  once  (and 
twice)  the  Tuileries,  where  the  aspect  of  things  rather  took 
her  fancy.  It  had  a  quieter  look  than  any  other  place 
of  the  same  description  they  had  passed,  and,  though  red 
with  patriotic  caps,  was  not  so  red  as  the  rest.  Sounding  Mr. 
Cruncher,  and  finding  him  of  her  opinion.  Miss  Pross  resorted 
to  The  Good  Republican  Brutus  of  Antiquity,  attended  by  her 
cavalier. 

Slightly  observant  of  the  smoky  lights  ;  of  the  people,  pipe 
in  mouth,  playing  with  limp  cards  and  yellow  dominoes  ;  of 
the  one  bare-breasted,  bare-armed,  soot-begrimed  workman 
reading  a  journal  aloud,  and  of  the  others  listening  to  him 
of  the  weapons  worn,  or  laid  aside  to  be  resumed  ;  of  the 
two  or  three  customers  fallen  forward  asleep,  who  in  the 
popular  high  shouldered  shaggy  black  spencer  looked,  in  that 
attitude,  lilce  slumbering  bears  or  dogs  ;  the  two  outlandish 


276 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


customers  approached  the  counter,  and  showed  what  they 
wanted. 

As  their  wine  was  measuring  out,  a  man  parted  from  an- 
other man  in  a  corner,  and  rose  to  depart.  In  going,  he  had 
to  face  Miss  Pross.  No  sooner  did  he  face  her,  than  Miss 
Pross  uttered  a  scream,  and  clapped  her  hands. 

In  a  moment,  the  whole  company  were  on  their  feet.  That 
somebody  was  assassinated  by  somebody  vindicating  a  differ- 
ence of  opinion  was  the  likeliest  occurrence.  Everybody  looked 
to  see  somebody  fall,  but  only  saw  a  man  and  a  woman  stand- 
ing staring  at  each  other  ;  the  man  with  all  the  outward  aspect 
of  a  Frenchman  and  a  thorough  Republican  ;  the  woman,  evi 
dently  English. 

What  was  said  in  this  disappointing  anti-climax,  by  the 
disciples  of  the  Good  Republican  Brutus  of  Antiquity,  except 
that  it  was  something  very  voluble  and  loud,  would  have  been 
as  so  much  Hebrew  or  Chaldean  to  Miss  Pross  and  her  pro- 
tector, though  they  had  been  all  ears.  But,  they  had  no 
ears  for  anything  in  their  surprise.  For,  it  must  be  recorded, 
that  not  only  was  Miss  Pross  lost  in  amazement  and  agita- 
tion, but,  Mr.  Cruncher — though  it  seemed  on  his  own  sep- 
arate and  individual  account — was  in  a  state  of  the  greatest 
wonder. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  said  the  man  who  had  caused  Miss 
Pross  to  scream  ;  speaking  in  a  vexed,  abrupt  voice  (though 
in  a  low  tone),  and  in  English. 

"  Oh,  Solomon,  dear  Solomon  !  "  cried-  Miss  Pross,  clap- 
ping her  hands  again.  "  After  not  setting  eyes  upon  you  or 
hearing  of  you  for  so  long  a  time,  do  I  find  you  here  ! 

"  Don't  call  me  Solomon.  Do  you  want  to  be  the  death 
of  me  \     asked  the  man,  in  a  furtive,  frightened  way. 

"  Brother,  brother  !  "  cried  Miss  Pross,  bursting  into  tears. 
"  Have  I  ever  been  so  hard  with  you  that  you  ask  me  such  a 
cruel  question  ? 

"Then  hold  your  meddlesome  tongue,"  said  Solomon, 
"  and  come  out,  if  you  want  to  speak  to  me.  Pay  for  your 
wine,  and  come  out.    Who's  this  man  ?  " 

Miss  Pross,  shaking  her  loving  and  dejected  head  at  her 
by  no  means  affectionate  brother,  said  through  her  tears,  "  Mr. 
Cruncher." 

"  Let  him  come  out  too,"  said  Solomon.  "  Does  he  think 
me  a  ghost  ?  " 

Apparently,  Mr.  Cruncher  did,  to  judge  fron  his  looks. 


A  HAND  AT  CARDZ. 


277 


He  said  not  a  word,  however,  and  Miss  Pross,  exploring  the 
depths  of  her  reticule  through  her  tears  with  great  difficulty 
paid  for  her  wine.  As  she  did  so,  Solomon  turned  to  the 
followers  of  the  Good  Republican  Brutus  of  Antiquity,  and 
offered  a  few  words  of  explanation  in  the  French  language, 
which  caused  them  all  to  relapse  into  their  former  places  and 
pursuits. 

"  Now,"  said  Solomon,  stopping  at  the  dark  street  corner, 
what  do  you  want  ? 

How  dreadfully  unkind  in  a  brother  nothing  has  ever 
turned  my  love  away  from  !  "  cried  Miss  Pross,  to  give  me 
such  a  greeting,  and  show  me  no  affection.'' 

"  There.  Con-found  it !  There,"  said  Solomon,  making 
a  dab  at  Miss  Pross's  lips  with  his  own.  "  Now  are  you  con- 
tent t  " 

Miss  Pross  only  shook  her  head  and  wept  in  silence. 

"  If  you  expect  me  to  be  surprised,"  said  her  brother 
Solomon,  I  am  not  surprised ;  I  knew  you  were  here  ;  I  know 
of  most  people  who  are  here.  If  you  really  don't  want  to 
endanger  my  existence — which  I  half  believe  you  do — go  your 
ways  as  soon  as  possible,  and  let  me  go  mine.  I  am  busy.  I 
am  an  official." 

"  My  English  brother  Solomon,"  mourned  Miss  Pross, 
casting  up  her  tear-fraught  eyes,  that  had  the  makings  in 
him  of  one  of  the  best  and  greatest  of  men  in  his  native 
country,  an  official  among  foreigners,  and  such  foreigners  ! 
I  would  almost  sooner  have  seen  the  dear  boy  lying  in 
his  " 

"  I  said  so  !  "  cried  her  brother,  interrupting.  "  I  knew 
it.  You  want  to  be  the  death  of  me.  I  shall  be  rendered 
suspected  by,  my  own  sister.    Just  as  I  am  getting  on  !  " 

"  The  gracious  and  merciful  Heavens  forbid  !  "  cried  Miss 
Pross.  "  Far  rather  would  I  never  see  you  again,  dear  Solo- 
mon, though  I  have  ever  loved  you  truly,  and  ever  shall.  Say 
but  one  affectionate  word  to  me,  and  tell  me  there  is  nothing 
angry  or  estranged  between  us,  and  I  will  detain  you  no 
longer." 

Good  Miss  Pross  !  As  if  the  estrangement  between  them 
had  come  of  any  culpability  of  hers.  As  if  Mr.  Lorry  had 
not  known  it  for  a  fact,  years  ago,  in  the  quiet  corner  in 
Soho,  that  this  precious  brother  had  spent  her  money  and  left 
her! 

He  was  saying  the  affectionate  word,  however  with  a  far 


278 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CI  TIES, 


more  grudging  condescension  and  patronage  than  he  could 
have  shown  if  their  relative  merits  and  positions  had  been  re- 
versed (which  is  invariably  the  case,  all  the  world  over), 
when  Mr.  Cruncher,  touching  him  on  the  shoulder,  hoarsely 
and  unexpectedly  interposed  with  the  following  singular  ques- 
tion : 

*^  I  say !  Might  I  ask  the  favor  ?  As  to  whether  jont 
name  is  John  Solomon,  or  Solomon  John  ?  " 

The  official  turned  towards  him  with  sudden  distrust. 
He  had  not  previously  uttered  a  word. 

"  Come ! said  Mr.  Cruncher.  "  Speak  out,  you  know." 
(Which,  by  the  way,  was  more  than  he  could  do  himself.) 
"  John  Solomon,  or  Solomon  John  }  She  calls  you  Solomon, 
and  she  must  know,  being  your  sister.  And  /  know  you're 
John,  you  know.  Which  of  the  two  goes  first  ?  And  regard- 
ing that  name  of  Pross,  likewise.  That  warn't  your  name 
over  the  water." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  all  I  mean,  for  I  can't  call  to  mind 
what  your  name  was,  over  the  water.'' 

"  No  ? " 

"  No.    But  I'll  swear  it  was  a  name  of  two  syllables." 

"  Indeed  ? " 

"  Yes.  T'other  one's  was  one  syllable.  I  know  you. 
You  was  a  spy-witness  at  the  Bailey.  What,  in  the  name  of 
the  Father  of  Lies,  own  father  to  yourself,  was  you  called  at 
that  time  ?  " 

"  Barsad,"  said  another  voice,  striking  in. 

"  That's  the  name  for  a  thousand  pound  ! "  cried  Jerry. 

The  speaker  who  struck  in,  was  Sydney  Carton.  He  had 
his  hands  behind  him  under  the  skirts  of  his  riding-coat,  and 
he  stood  at  Mr.  Cruncher's  elbow  as  negligently  as  he  might 
have  stood  at  the  Old  Bailey  itself. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  my  dear  Miss  Pross.  I  arrived  at 
Mr.  Lorry's,  to  his  surprise,  yesterday  evening  :  we  agreed  that 
I  would  not  present  myself  elsewhere  until  all  was  well,  or 
unless  I  could  be  useful ;  L  present  myself  here,  to  beg  a  little 
talk  with  your  brother.  I  wish  you  had  a  better  employed 
brother  than  Mr.  Barsad.  I  wish  for  your  sake  Mr.  Barsad 
was  not  a  Sheep  of  the  Prisons." 

Sheep  was  a  cant  word  of  the  time  for  a  spy,  under  the 
jailers.  The  spy,  who  was  pale,  turned  paler,  and  asked  him 
how  he  dared — — 


A  HAND  A  T  CARDS. 


279 


"  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Sydney.  "  I  lighted  on  you,  Mr. 
6arsad,  coming  out  of  the  prison  of  the  Conciergerie  while 
I  was  contemplating  the  walls,  an  hour  or  more  ago.  You 
have  a  face  to  be  remembered,  and  I  remember  faces  well. 
Made  curious  by  seeing  you  in  that  connection,  and  having  a 
reason,  to  which  you  are  no  stranger,  for  associating  you  with 
the  misfortunes  of  a  friend  now  very  unfortunate,  I  walked  in 
your  direction.  I  walked  into  the  wine-shop  here,  close  after 
you,  and  sat  near  you.  I  had  no  difficulty  in  deducing  from 
your  unreserved  conversation,  and  the  rumor  openly  going 
about  among  your  admirers,  the  nature  of  your  calling.  And 
gradually,  what  I  had  done  at  random,  seemed  to  shape  itself 
into  a  purpose,  Mr.  Barsad." 

"  What  purpose  ? "  the  spy  asked. 

"  It  would  be  troublesome,  and  might  be  dangerous,  to 
explain  in  the  street.  Could  you  favor  me,  in  confidence, 
with  some  minutes  of  your  cx)mpany — at  the  office  of  Tellson's 
Bank,  for  instance  " 

"  Under  a  threat " 

«  Oh !    Did  I  say  that  ? 

"  Then,  why  should  I  go  there  ?  " 
Really,  Mr.  Barsad,  I  can't  say,  if  you  can't." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  won't  say,  sir  ? "  the  spy  irres- 
olutely asked. 

"  You  apprehend  me  very  clearly,  Mr.  Barsad.    I  won't." 

Carton's  negligent  recklessness  of  manner  came  powerfully 
in  aid  of  his  quickness  and  skill,  in  such  a  business  as  he  had 
in  his  secret  mind,  and  with  such  a  man  as  he  had  to  do  with. 
His  practised  eye  saw  it,  and  made  the  most  of  it. 

"  Now,  I  told  you  so,"  said  the  spy,  looking  reproachfully 
at  his  sister ;  "  if  any  trouble  comes  of  this,  it's  your  doing." 

"  Come,  come,  Mr.  Barsad  ! "  exclaimed  Sydney.  "  Don't 
be  ungrateful.  But  for  my  great  respect  for  your  sister,  I 
might  not  have  led  up  so  pleasantly  to  a  little  proposal  that 
I  wish  to  make  for  our  mutual  satisfaction.  Do  you  go  with 
me  to  the  Bank  ?  " 

"  I'll  hear  what  you  have  got  to  say.  Yes,  I'll  go  with 
you.'' 

"  I  propose  that  we  first  conduct  your  sister  safely  to  the 
corner  of  her  own  street.  Let  me  take  your  arm.  Miss  Pross 
This  is  not  a  good  city,  at  this  time,  for  you  to  be  out  in,  un- 
protected ;  and  as  your  escort  knows  Mr.  Barsad,  I  will  invite 
him  *o  Mr.  Lorry's  with  us.    Are  we  ready  ?   Come  then  I  " 


28o 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


Miss  Pross  recalled  soon  afterwards,  and  to  the  end  ot 
her  life  remembered,  that  as  she  pressed  her  hands  on  Syd- 
ney's arm  and  looked  up  in  his  face,  implorine  him  to  do  no 
hurt  to  Solomon,  there  was  a  braced  purpose  in  the  arm  and 
a  kind  of  inspiration  in  the  eyes,  which  not  only  contradicted 
his  light  manner,  but  changed  and  raised  the  man.  She  was 
too  much  occupied  then  with  fears  for  the  brother  who  so  little 
deserved  her  affection,  and  with  Sydney's  friendly  reas 
surances,  adequately  to  heed  what  she  observed. 

They  left  her  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  Carton  led 
the  way  to  Mr.  Lorry's,  which  was  within  a  few  minutes'  walk. 
^  John  Barsad,  or  Solomon  Pross,  walked  at  his  side. 

Mr.  Lorry  had  just  finished  his  dinner,  and  was  sitting 
before  a  cheery  little  log  or  two  of  fire — perhaps  looking  into 
their  blaze  for  the  picture  of  that  younger  elderly  gentleman 
from  Tellson's,  who  had  looked  into  the  red  coals  at  the 
Royal  George  at  Dover,  now  a  good  many  years  ago.  He 
turned  his  head  as  they  entered,  and  showed  the  surprise  with 
which  he  saw  a  stranger. 

"  Miss  Pross's  brother,  sir,"  said  Sydney.    "  Mr.  Barsad." 

"  Barsad  ?  "  repeated  the  old  gentleman,  "  Barsad  ?  I 
have  an  association  with  the  name — and  with  the  face." 

"  I  told  you  you  had  a  remarkable  face,  Mr.  Barsad,"  ob- 
served Carton,  coolly.    ^'  Pray  sit  down." 

As  he  took  a  chair  himself,  he  supplied  the  link  that  Mr. 
Lorry  wanted,  by  saying  to  him  with  a  frown,  "  Witness  at  that 
trial,"  Mr.  Lorry  immediately  remembered,  and  regarded  his 
new  visitor  with  an  undisguised  look  of  abhorrence. 

"  Mr.  Barsad  has  been  recognized  by  Miss  Pross  as  the 
affectionate  brother  you  have  heard  of,"  said  Sydney,  "  and 
has  acknowledged  the  relationship.  I  pass  to  worse  news. 
Darnay  has  been  arrested  again." 

Struck  with  consternation,  the  old  gentleman  exclaimed, 
"  What  do  you  tell  me  !  I  left  him  safe  and  free  within  these 
tv/o  hours,  and  am  about  to  return  to  him  ! " 

Arrested  for  all  that.    When  was  it  done,  Mr.  Barsad  ?  " 

"  Just  now,  if  at  all." 

"  Mr.  Barsad  is  the  best  authority  possible,  sir,"  said 
Sydney,  "  and  I  have  it  from  Mr.  Barsad's  communication  to 
a  friend  and  brother  Sheep  over  a  bottle  of  wine,  that  the 
arrest  has '  taken  place.  He  left  the  messengers  at  the  gate, 
and  saw  them  admitted  by  the  porter.  There  is  no  earthlj 
doubt  that  he  is  retaken." 


A  HAND  A  T  CARDS. 


281 


Mr.  Lorry's  business  eye  read  in  the  speaker's  face  that  it 
was  '.OSS  of  time  to  dwell  upon  the  point.  Confused,  but  sen* 
sible  that  something  might  depend  on  his  presence  of  mind^ 
he  commanded  himself,  and  was  silently  attentive. 

Now,  I  trust,"  said  Sydney  to  him,  "  that  the  name  and 
influence  of  Doctor  Manette  may  stanrl  him  in  as  good  stead 
to-morrow — you  said  he  would  be  before  the  Tribunal  again 
to-morrow,  Mr.  Barsad  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  believe  so." 

" — In  as  good  stead  to-morrow  as  to-day.  But  it  may 
not  be  so.  I  own  to  you,  I  am  shaken,  Mr.  Loriy,  by  Doctor 
Manette's  not  having  had  the  power  to  prevent  this  arrest." 

He  may  not  have  known  of  it  beforehand,"  said  Mr. 
Lorry. 

"  But  that  very  circumstance  would  be  alarming,  when  we 
remember  how    identified  he  is  with  his  son-in-law." 

That's  true,"  Mr.  Lorry  acknowledged,  with  his  troubled 
hand  at  his  chin,  and  his  troubled  eyes  on  Carton. 

"  In  short,"  said  Sydney,  this  is  a  desperate  time,  when 
desperate  games  are  played  for  desperate  stakes.  Let  the 
Doctor  play  the  winning  game ;  I  will  play  the  losing  one. 
No  man's  life  here  is  worth  purchase.  Any  one  carried  home 
by  the  people  to-day,  may  be  condemned  to-moi row.  Now, 
the  stake  I  have  resolved  to  play  xor,  in  care  of  the  worst,  is 
a  friend  in  the  Conciergerie.  And  the  friend  I  purpose  to 
myself  to  win,  is  Mr.  Barsad." 

*'  You  need  have  good  cards,  sir,"  said  the  spy. 

"  I'll  run  them  over.  I'll  see  what  I  hold — Mr.  Lorry, 
you  know  what  a  brute  I  am  ;  I  wish  you'd  give  me  a'  little 
brandy." 

It  was  put  before  him,  and  he  drank  off  a  glassful — drank 
off  another  glassful — pushed  the  bottle  thoughtfully  away. 

"  Mr.  Barsad,"  he  went  on,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  really 
v/as  looking  over  a  hand  at  cards :  "  Sheep  of  the  prisons, 
emissary  of  Republican  committ'^es,  now  turnkey,  now  pris- 
oner, always  spy  and  secret  informer,  ro  much  che  more  val- 
uable here  for  being  English  that  an  Englishman  is  less  open 
to  suspicion  of  subornation  in  thos  characters  than  a  French- 
man, represents  himself  to  his  employers  under  a  false  name, 
That's  a  very  good  card.  Mr.  Barsad,  now  in  th?  employ  oi 
the  Republican  French  government,  was  formerly  in  the  em- 
ploy of  the  aristocratic  English  government,  the  enemy  of 
France  and  freedom.    That's  an  excellent  card.  Inference 


282 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


clear  as  day  in  this  region  of  suspicion,  that  Mr.  Barsad,  still 
in  the  pay  of  the  aristocratic  English  government,  is  the  spy 
of  Pitt,  the  treacherous  foe  of  the  Republic  crouching  in  its 
bosom,  the  English  traitor  and  agent  of  all  mischief  so  much 
spoken  of  and  so  difficult  to  find.  That's  a  card  not  to  be 
beaten.    Have  you  followed  my  hand,  Mr.  Barsad  ?  " 

Not  to  understand  your  play,"  returned  the  spy,  some 
what  uneasily. 

"  I  play  my  Ace  Denunciation  of  Mr.  Barsad  to  the 
nearest  Section  Committee.  Look  over  your  hand,  Mr.  Bar- 
sad, and  see  what  you  have.    Don't  hurry." 

He  drew  the  bottle  near,  poured  out  another  glassful  of 
brandy,  and  drank  it  off.  He  saw  that  the  spy  was  fearful  of 
his  drinking  himself  into  a  fit  state  for  the  immediate  denun- 
ciation of  him.  Seeing  it,  he  poured  out  and  drank  another 
glassful. 

**Look  over  your  hand  carefully,  Mr.  Barsad.  Take 
time." 

It  was  a  poorer  hand  than  he  suspected.  Mr.  Barsad  saw 
losing  cards  in  it  that  Sydney  Carton  knew  nothing  of. 
Thrown  out  of  his  honorable  employment  in  England,  through 
too  much  unsuccessful  hard  swearing  there — not  because  he 
was  not  wanted  there  ;  our  English  reasons  for  vaunting  oui 
superiority  to  secrecy  and  spies  are  of  very  modern  date — he 
knew  that  he  had  crossed  the  Channel,  and  accepted  service 
in  France  :  first,  as  a  tempter  and  an  eavesdropper  among  his 
own  countrymen  there  :  gradually,  as  a  tempter  and  an  eaves- 
dropper among  the  natives.  He  knew  that  under  the  over- 
thrown government  he  had  been  a  spy  upon  Saint  Antoine 
and  Defarge's  wine-shop :  had  received  from  the  watchful 
police  such  heads  of  information  concerning  Doctor  Manette's 
imprisonment,  release,  and  history,  as  should  serve  him  for 
an  introduction  to  familiar  conversation  with  the  Defarges  ; 
and  tried  them  on  Madame  Defarge,  and  had  broken  down 
with  them  signally.  He  always  rememberetl  with  fear  and 
trembling,  that  that  terrible  woman  had  knitted  when  he 
talked  with  her,  and  had  looked  ominously  at  him  as  her 
fingers  moved.  He  had  since  seen  her,  in  the  Section  of  Saint 
Antoine,  over  and  over  again  produce  her  knitted  registers, 
and  denounce  people  whose  lives  the  guillotine  then  surely 
swallowed  up.  He  knew,  as  every  one  employed  as  'he  was 
did,  that  he  was  never  safe  ;  that  flight  was  impossible  ;  that 
he  was  tied  fast  under  the  shadow  of  the  axe ;  and  that  in 


A  HAND  A  T  CARDS. 


283 


spite  of  his  utmost  tejrgiversation  and  treachery  in  furtherance 
of  the  reigning  terror,  a  word  might  bring  it  down  upon  him. 
Once  denounced,  and  on  such  grave  grounds  as  had  just  now 
been  suggested  to  his  m.ina  ne  foresaw  that  the  dreadful 
woman  of  whose  unrelenting  rli^racter  he  had  seen  many 
proofs,  would  produce  again*:c  nim  that  fatal  register,  and 
would  squash  his  last  chances  01  hfe.  Besides  that  all  secret 
men  are  men  soon  terrili-eG,  here  ai-e  surely  cards  enough  of 
one  black  suit,  to  ijustjfy  tl^ie  holdei-  in  growing  rather  livid  as 
he  turned  them  over. 

"  You  scarcely  seem  to  like  your  Viand,''  said  Sydney, 
with  the  greatest  coftipcsure.    "  Da  you  play  ?  " 

"  I  think,  sir/'  i^aid  the  spy,  in  tat  meanest  manner,  as  he 
turned  to  Mr.  i.o.iy,  "  I  may  appeal  to  a  gentleman  of  your 
years  and  benevolence,  to  put  it  to  this  other  gentlemati,  so 
much  your  jmiior,  whether  he  can  under  any  circumstances 
reconcile  it  to  his  station  to  play  that  Ace  of  which  he  has 
spoken.  I  admit  that  /  am  a  spy,  and  that  it  is  considered 
a  discreditable  station — though  it  must  be  filled  by  some- 
body;  but  this  gentleman  is  no  spy,  and  why  should  he  so 
demean  himself  as  to  make  himself  one  ?  " 

"  I  play  my  Ace,  Mr.  Barsad,"  said  Carton,  taking  the 
answer  on  himself,  and  looking  at  his  watch,  "without  any 
scruple,  in  a  very  few  minutes." 

"  I  should  have  hoped,  gentlemen  both,''  said  the  spy, 
always  striving  to  hook  Mr.  Lorry  into  the  discussion,  "  that 
your  respect  for  my  sister  " 

"  I  could  not  better  testify  my  respect  for  your  sister  than 
by  finally  relieving  her  of  her  brother,"  said  Sydney  Carton. 

"  You  think  not,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  have  thoroughly  made  up  my  mind  about  it." 

The  smooth  manner  of  the  spy,  curiously  in  dissonance 
with  his  ostentatiously  rough  dress,  and  probably  with  his 
usual  demeanor,  received  such  a  check  from  the  inscrutability 
of  Carton — who  was  a  mystery  to  wiser  and  honester  men  than 
he, — that  it  faltered  here  and  failed  him.  While  he  was  at 
a  loss.  Carton  said,  resuming  his  former  air  of  contemplating 
cards  : 

"  And  indeed,  now  I  think  again,  I  have  a  strong  impres- 
sion that  I  have  another  good  card  here,  not  yet  enumerated. 
That  friend  and  fellow-Sheep,  who  spoke  of  himself  as  pastur- 
ing in  the  country  prisons  ;  who  was  he  ?  " 

French.    You  don't  know  him,"  said  the  spy,  quickly. 


284 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


"  French,  eh  ? "  repeated  Carton,  mucing,  and  not  appear 
^  ing  to  notice  him  at  all,  though  he  echoed  his  word.      Well  ; 
he  may  be." 

Is,  I  assure  you,"  said  the  spy;  "though  it's  not  im- 
portant." 

"  Though  it's  not  important,"  repeated  Carton,  in  the 

same  mechanical  way — "  though  it's  not  important  No, 

it's  not  important.    No.    Yet  I  know  the  face." 

"  I  think  not.  I  am  sure  not.  It  can't  be,"  said  the 
spy. 

"  It — can't — be,"  muttered  Sydney  Carton,  retrospectively, 
and  filling  his  glass  (which  fortunately  was  a  small  one)  again. 
"  Can't — be.  Spoke  good  French.  Yet  like  a  foreigner,  I 
thought  ? " 

"Provincial,"  said  the  spy. 

"  No.  Foreign  !  "  cried  Carton,  striking  his  open  hand 
on  the  table,  as  a  light  broke  clearly  on  his  mind.  "  Cly ! 
Disguised,  but  the  same  man.  We  had  that  man  before  us 
at  the  Old  Bailey." 

"Now,  there  you  are  hasty,  sir,"  said  Barsad,  with  a  smile 
that  gave  his  aquiline  nose  an  extra  inclination  to  one  side  ; 

there  you  really  give  me  an  advantage  over  you.  Cly  (who 
I  will  undeservedly  admit,  at  this  distance  of  time,  was  a  part- 
ner of  mine)  has  been  dead  several  years.  I  attended  him  in 
his  last  illness.  He  was  buried  in  London,  at  the  church  of 
Saint  Pancras-in-the-Fields.  His  unpopularity  with  the  black- 
guard multitude  at  the  moment  prevented  my  following  his  re- 
mains, but  I  helped  to  lay  him  in  his  coffin." 

Here,  Mr.  Lorry  became  aware,  from  where  he  sat,  of  a 
most  remarkable  goblin  shadow  on  the  wall.  Tracing  it  to 
its  source,  he  discovered  it  to  be  caused  by  a  sudden  extraor- 
dinary rising  and  stiffening  of  all  the  risen  and  stiff  hair  on 
Mr.  Cruncher's  head. 

"  Let  us  be  reasonable,"  said  the  spy,  "  and  let  us  be  fair. 
To  show  you  how  mistaken  you  are,  and  what  an  unfounded 
assumption  yours  is,  I  will  lay  before  you  a  certificate  of  Cly's 
burial,  which  I  happen  to  have  carried  in  my  pocket-book," 
with  a  hurried  hand  he  produced  and  opened  it,  "  ever  since. 
There  it  is.  Oh,  look  at  it,  look  at  it !  You  may  take  it  in 
yout  hand  ;  it's  no  forgery." 

Here,  Mr  Lorry  perceived  the  reflection  on  the  wall  to 
elongate,  and  Mr.  Cruncher  rose  and  stepped  forward.  His 
hair  could  not  have  been  more  violently  on  end,  if  it  had  beei? 


A  HAND  A  T  CARDS. 


285 


that  moment  dressed  by  the  Cow  with  the  crumpled  horn  m 
che  house  that  Jack  built. 

Unseen  by  the  spy,  Mr.  Cruncher  stood  at  his  side,  and 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder  like  a  ghostly  bailiff. 

"  That  there  Roger  Cly,  master,''  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  with 
a  taciturn  and  iron-bound  visage.  "So  you  put  him  in  his 
coffin  ? 

"  I  did.'' 

"  Who  took  him  out  of  it  ? 

Barsad  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  stammered,  "  What 
do  you  mean-? " 

"  I  mean,''  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  "  that  he  warn't  never  in  it. 
No  !  Not  he !  Ill  have  my  head  took  off,  if  he  was  ever 
in  it." 

The  spy  looked  round  at  the  two  gentlemen ;  they  both 
looked  in  unspeakable  astonishment  at  Jerry. 

I  tell  you,"  said  Jerry,  *'that  you  buried  paving-stones 
and  earth  in  that  there  coffin.  Don't  go  and  tell  7ne  that  you 
buried  Cly.    It  was  a  take  in.    Me  and  two  more  knows  it." 

"  How  do  3^ou  know  it  ?  " 

"  What's  that  to  you  ?  Ecod  !  "  growled  Mr.  Cruncher, 
"It's  you  I  have  got  a  grudge  again,  is  it,  with  your  shameful 
imposition  upon  tradesmen !  I'd  catch  hold  of  your  throat 
and  choke  you  for  half  a  guinea." 

Sydney  Carton,  who,  with  Mr.  Lorr}%  had  been  lost  in 
amazement  at  this  turn  of  the  business,  here  requested  Mr. 
Cruncher  to  moderate  and  explain  himself. 

"  At  another  time,  sir,"  he  returned,  evasively,  "  the  pres- 
ent time  is  ill-conwenient  for  explamin'.  What  I  stand  to,  is, 
that  he  knows  well  wot  that  there  Cly  was  never  in  that  there 
coffin.  Let  him  say  he  was,  in  so  much  as  a  word  of  one 
syllable,  and  I'll  either  catch  hold  of  his  throat  and  choke  him 
for  half  a  guinea;  "  Mr.  Cruncher  dwelt  upon  this  as  quite  a 
liberal  offer  ;    or  I'll  out  and  announce  him.'' 

"  Humph  !  I  see  one  thing,"  said  Carton.  "  I  hold  an- 
other card,  Mr.  Barsad.  Impossible,  here  in  raging  Paris, 
with  suspicion  filling  the  air,  for  you  to  outlive  denunciation, 
when  you  are  in  communication  with  another  aristocratic  spy 
of  the  same  antecedents  as  yourself,  who,  moreover,  has  the 
mystery  about  him  of  having  feigned  death  and  come  to  life 
again !  A  plot  in  the  prisons,  oi  the  foreigner  against  the 
Republic.  A  strong  card — certain  Guillotine  card  I  Do  you 
play  ? " 


286 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


"  No  !  returned  the  spy.  "  I  throw  up.  I  confess  that 
we  were  so  unpopular  with  the  outrageous  mob,  that  I  only 
got  away  from  England  at  the  risk  of  being  ducked  to  death, 
and  that  Cly  was  so  ferreted  up  and  down,  that  he  never 
would  have  got  away  at  all  but  for  that  sham.  Though  how 
this  man  knows  it  was  a  sham,  is  a  wonder  of  wonders  to 
me." 

"  Never  you  trouble  your  head  about  this  man,"  retorted 
the  contentious  Mr.  Cruncher  ;  "  you'll  have  trouble  enough 
with  giving  your  attention  to  that  gentleman.  And  look  here  1 
Once  more  !  " — Mr.  Cruncher  could  not  be  restrained  from 
making  rather  an  ostentatious  parade  of  his  liberality — I'd 
catch  hold  of  your  throat  and  choke  you  for  half  a  guinea." 

The  Sheep  of  the  prisons  turned  from  him  to  Sydney  Car- 
ton, and  said,  with  more  decision,  "  It  has  come  to  a  point. 
I  go  on  duty  soon,  and  can't  overstay  my  time.  You  told 
me  you  had  a  proposal ;  what  is  it  ?  Now,  it  is  of  no  use 
asking  too  much  of  me.  Ask  me  to  do  anything  in  my  office, 
putting  my  head  in  great  extra  danger,  and  I  had  better  trust 
my  life  to  the  chances  of  a  refusal  than  the  chances  of  consent. 
In  short,  I  should  make  that  choice.  You  talk  of  desperation. 
We  are  all  desperate  here.  Remember !  I  may  denounce 
you  if  I  think  proper,  and  I  can  swear  my  way  through  stone 
walls,  and  ^o  can  others.  Now,  what  do  you  want  with 
me  ? " 

"  Not  very  much.    You  are  a  turnkey  at  the  Concier-. 

gerie  ?  " 

I  tell  you  once  for  all,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  an 
escape  possible,"  said  the  spy,  firmly. 

"  Why  need  you  tell  me  what  I  have  not  asked?  You  are 
a  turnkey  at  the  Conciergerie  ?  " 

"  I  am  sometimes." 

"  You  can  be  when  you  choose  ? 

"  I  can  pass  in  and  out  when  I  choose." 

Sydney  Carton  filled  another  glass  of  brandy,  poured  it 
slowly  out  upon  the  hearth,  and  watched  it  as  it  dropped.  It 
being  all  spent,  he  said,  rising : 

"  So  far,  we  have  spoken  before  these  two,  because  it  was 
as  well  that  the  merits  of  the  cards  should  not  rest  solely  be- 
tween you  and  me.  Come  into  the  dark  room  here,  and  lef 
us  have  one  final  word  alone."  ^ 


THE  GAME  MADE. 


287 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    GAME  MADE. 

While  Sydney  Carton  and  the  Sheep  of  the  prisons  were 
in  the  adjoining  dark  room,  speaking  so  low  that  not  a 
sound  was  heard,  Mr.  Lorry  looked  at  Jerry  in  considerable 
doubt  and  mistrust.  That  honest  tradesman's  manner  of  re- 
ceiving the  look,  did  not  inspire  confidence  ;  he  changed  the 
leg  on  which  he  rested,  as  often  as  if  he  had  fifty  of  those  limbs, 
and  were  trying  them  all ;  he  examined  his  finger-nails  with  a 
very  questionable  closeness  of  attention ;  and  whenever  Mr. 
Lorry's  eye  caught  his,  he  was  taken  with  that  peculiar  kind 
of  short  cough  requiring  the  hollow  of  a  hand  before  it,  which 
is  seldom,  if  ever,  known  to  be  an  infirmity  attendant  on  per- 
fect openness  of  character. 

"Jerry,"  said  Mr.  Lorry.    "  Come  here." 

Mr.  Cruncher  came  forward  sideways,  with  one  of  his 
shouldero'  in  advance  of  him. 

"  What  have  you  been,  besides  a  messenger  ?  " 

After  some  cogitation,  accompanied  with  an  intent  look 
at  his  patron,  Mr.  Cruncher  conceived  the  luminous  idea  of 
replying,  "  Agricultooral  character." 

"  My  mind  misgives  me  much,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  angrily 
shaking  a  forefinger  at  him,  "  that  you  have  used  the  respect- 
able and  great  house  of  Tellson's  as  a  blind,  and  that  you 
have  had  an  unlawful  occupation  of  an  infamous  description. 
If  you  have,  don't  expect  me  to  befriend  you  when  you  get 
back  to  England.  If  you  have,  don't  expect  me  to  keep  your 
secret    Tellson's  shall  not  be  imposed  upon." 

"  I  hope,  sir,"  pleaded  the  abashed  Mr.  Cruncher,  "  that 
a  gentleman  like  yourself  wot  I've  had  the  honor  of  odd  job- 
bing till  I'm  gray  at  it,  would  think  twice  about  harming  of 
me,  even  if  it  wos  so — I  don't  say  it  is,  but  even  if  it  wos.  And 
which  it  is  to  be  took  into  account  that  if  it  wos,  it  wouldn't, 
even  then,  be  all  o'  one  side.  There'd  be  two  sides  to  it. 
There  might  be  medical  doctors  at  the  present  hour,  a  pick- 
ing up  their  guineas  where  a  honest  tradesman  don't  pick  up 
^lis  fardens — fardens  !  no,  nor  yet  his  half  fardens — half  far 


4  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


dens  !  no,  nor  yet  his  quarter — a  banking  away  like  smoke  at 
Tellson's,  and  a  cocking  their  medical  eyes  at  that  tradesman 
on  the  sly,  a  going  in  and  going  out  to  their  own  carriages — ah  ! 
equally  like  smoke,  if  not  more  so.  Well,  that  'ud  be  imposing, 
too,  on  Tellson's.  For  you  cannot  sarse  the  goose  and  not  the 
gander.  And  here's  Mrs.  Cruncher,  or  leastw^ays  wos  in  the 
Old  England  times,  and  would  be  to-morrow,  if  cause  given,  a 
floppin'  again  the  business  to  that  degree  as  is  ruinating — ■■ 
stark  ruinating  !  Whereas  them  medical  doctors^  wives  don't 
flop — catch  'em  at  it !  Or,  if  they  flop,  their  floppings  goes  in 
favor  of  more  patients,  and  how  can  you  rightly  have  one 
without  the  t'other  ?  Then,  wot  with  undertakers,  and  wot 
with  parish  clerks,  and  wot  with  sextons,  and  wot  with  private 
watchmen  (all  awaricious  and  all  in  it),  a  man  v/ouldn't  get 
much  by  it,  even  if  it  wos  so.  And  wot  little  a  man  did  get, 
would  never  prosper  with  him,  Mr.  Lorry.  He'd  never  have 
no  good  of  it ;  he'd  want  all  along  to  be  out  of  the  line,  if  he 
could  see  his  way  out,  being  once  in — even  if  it  wos  so." 

"  Ugh  !  "  cried  Mr.  Lorry,  rather  relenting,  neverthelesis. 
"  I  am  shocked  at  the  sight  of  you." 

"Now,  what  I  would  humbly  offer  to  you,  sir,"  pursued 
Mr.  Cruncher,  "  even  if  it  wos  so,  which  I  don't  say  it  is  " 

"  Don't  prevaricate,"  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

"  No,  I  will  not^  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Cruncher,  as  if  nothing 
were  further  from  his  thoughts  or  practice — "  which  I  don't 
say  it  is — wot  I  would  humbly  offer  to  you,  sir,  would  be  this. 
Upon  that  there  stool,  at  that  there  Bar,  sets  that  there  boy  of 
mine,  brought  up  and  growed  up  to  be  a  man,  wot  will  errand 
you,  message  you,  general-light-job  you,  till  your  heels  is  where 
your  head  is,  if  such  should  be  your  wishes.  If  it  wos  so  which 
I  still  don't  say  it  is  (for  I  will  not  prewaricate  to  you,  sir),  let 
that  there  boy  keep  his  father's  place,  and  take  care  of  his 
mother ;  don't  blow  upon  that  boy's  father — do  not  do  it,  sir — ■ 
and  let  that  father  go  into  the  line  of  the  reg'lar  diggin',  and 
make  amends  for  what  he  would  have  un-dug — if  it  wos  so — by 
diggin'  of  'em  in  with  a  will,  and  with  conwictions  respectin'  the 
futur  keepin'  of  'em  safe.  That,  Mr.  Lorry,"  said  Mr.  Crunch- 
er^  wiping  his  forehead  with  his  arm,  as  an  announcement 
that  he  had  arrived  at  the  peroration  of  his  discourse,  "  is  wot 
I  would  respectfully  offer  to  you,  sir.  A  man  don't  see  all 
this  here  a  goin'  on  dreadful  round  him,  in  the  way  of  Sub- 
jects without  heads,  dear  me,  plentiful  enough  fur  to  bring  the 
price  down  to  porterage  and  hardly  that,  without  havin'  hi? 


THE  GAME  MADE. 


289 


serious  thoughts'  of  things.  And  these  here  would  be  mine, 
if  it  was  so,  entreatin'  of  you  fur  to  bear  in  mind  that  wot  I 
said  just  now,  I  up  and  said  in  the  good  cause  when  I  might 
have  kep'  it  back." 

*^That  at  least  is  true,''  said  Mr.  Lorry.  ''Say  no  more 
now.  It  may  be  that  I  shall  yet  stand  your  friend,  if  you 
deserve  it,  and  repent  in  action — not  in  words.  I  want  no 
more  words." 

Mr.  Cruncher  knuckled  his  forehead,  as  Sydney  Carton 
and  the  spy  returned  from  the  dark  room.  "Adieu,  Mr. 
Barsad,"  said  the  former  ;  "  our  arrangement  thus  made,  you 
have  nothing  to  fear  from  me." 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair  on  the  hearth,  over  against  Mr. 
Lorry,  When  they  were  alone,  Mr.  Lorry  asked  him  what  he 
had  done  ? 

"  Not  much.    If  it  should  go  ill  with  the  prisoner,  I  have 
ensured  access  to  him,  once." 
Mr.  Lorry's  countenance  fell. 

*'  It  is  all  I  could  do,"  said  Carton.  "  To  propose  too 
much,  would  be  to  put  this  man's  head  under  the  axe,  and,  as 
he  himself  said,  nothing  worse  could  happen  to  him  if  he  were 
denounced.  It  was  obviously  the  weakness  of  the  position. 
There  is  no  help  for  it." 

"  But  access  to  him,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  "  if  it  should  go  ill 
before  the  Tribunal,  will  not  save  him." 

"  I  never  said  it  v/ould." 

Mr.  Lorry's  eyes  gradually  sought  the  fire ;  his  sympathy 
with  his  darling,  and  the  heavy  disappointment  of  this  second 
arrest,  gradually  weakened  them  ;  he  was  an  old  man  now, 
overborne  with  anxiety  of  late,  and  his  tears  fell. 

"  You  are  a  good  man  and  a  true  friend,"  said  Cartoii,  in 
an  altered  voice.  "  Forgive  me  if  I  notice  that  you  are  affected. 
I  could  not  see  my  father  weep,  and  sit  by,  careless.  And  I 
could  not  respect  your  sorrow  more,  if  you  were  my  father 
You  are  free  from  that  misfortune,  however." 

'I'hough  he  said  the  last  words,  with  a  slip  into  his  usual 
manner,  there  was  a  true  feeling  and  respect  Doth  in  his  tone 
and  in  his  touch,  that  Mr.  Lorry,  who  had  never  seen  the 
better  side  of  him,  was  wholly  unprepared  for.  He  gave  him 
his  hand,  and  Carton  gently  pressed  it. 

"To  turn  to  poor  Darnay,"  said  Carton.  "Don't  tell 
Her  of  this  interview,  or  this  arrangement.  It  would  not 
enable  Her  to  go  to  see  him.    She  might  tliink  it  was  con' 

19 


29© 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES 


trived,  m  case  of  the  worst,  to  convey  to  him  the  means  of 
anticipating  the  sentence." 

Mr.  Lorry  had  not  thought  of  that,  and  he  looked  quickly 
at  Carton  to  see  if  it  were  in  his  mind.  It  seemed  to  be  ;  he 
returned  the  look,  and  evidently  understood  it. 

"  She  might  think  a  thousand  things,''  Carton  said,  "  and 
any  of  them  would  only  add  to  her  trouble.  Don't  speak  of 
me  to  her.  As  I  said  to  you  when  I  first  came,  I  had  better 
not  see  her.  I  can  put  my  hand  out,  to  do  any  little  helpful 
work  for  her  that  my  hand  can  find  to  do,  without  that.  You 
are  going  to  her,  I  hope  ?  She  must  be  very  desolate  to-night." 

"  I  am  going  now,  directly.'' 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.    She  has  such  a  strong  attachment  to 
you  and  reliance  on  you.    How  does  she  look  }  " 
"  Anxious  and  unhappy,  but  very  beautiful." 
"  Ah !  " 

It  was  a  long,  grieving  sound,  like  a  sigh — almost  like  a 
sob.  It  attracted  Mr.  Lorry's  eyes  to  Carton's  face,  which 
was  turned  to  the  fire.  A  light,  or  a  shade  (the  old  gentleman 
could  not  have  said  which),  passed  from  it  as  swiftly  as  a 
change  will  sweep  over  a  hill-side  on  a  wild  bright  day,  and 
he  lifted  his  foot  to  put  back  one  of  the  little  flaming  logs, 
which  was  tumbling  forward.  He  wore  the  white  riding-coat 
and  top-boots,  then  in  vogue,  and  the  light  of  the  fire  touch- 
ing their  light  surfaces  made  him  look  very  pale,  with  his  long 
brown  hair,  all  untrimmed,  hanging  loose  about  him.  His 
indifference  to  fire  was  sufficiently  remarkable  to  elicit  a  word 
of  remonstrance  from  Mr.  Lorry  ;  his  boot  was  still  upon  the 
hot  embers  of  the  flaming  log,  when  it  had  broken  under  the 
weight  of  his  foot. 

"  I  forgot  it,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Lorry's  eyes  were  again  attracted  to  his  face.  Taking 
note  of  the  wasted  air  which  clouded  the  naturally  handsome 
features,  and  having  the  expression  of  prisoners'  faces  fresh 
in  his  mind,  he  was  strongly  reminded  of  that  expression. 

And  your  duties  here  have  drawn  to  an  end,  sir  1  "  said 
Carton,  turning  to  him. 

Yes.  As  I  was  telling  you  last  night  when  Lucie  came 
in  so  unexpectedly,  I  have  at  length  done  all  that  I  can  do 
here.  I  hoped  to  have  left  them  in  perfect  safety,  and  then 
to  have  quitted  Paris.  I  have  my  Leave  to  Pass.  I  was 
ready  to  go." 

They  were  both  silent. 


THE  CAME  MADE, 


"  Yours  is  a  long  life  to  look  back  upon,  sir  ?  "  said  Car^ 
ton,  wistfully. 

"  I  am  in  my  seventy-eighth  year." 

"  You  have  been  useful  all  your  life  ;  steadily  and  con- 
stantly occupied  ;  trusted,  respected,  and  looked  up  to  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  a  man  of  business  ever  since  I  have  been  a 
man.  Indeed,  I  may  say  that  I  was  a  man  of  business  when 
a  boy.'' 

"  See  what  a  place  you  fill  at  seventy-eight.  How  many 
people  will  miss  you  when  you  leave  it  empty ! '' 

"  A  solitary  old  bachelor,"  answered  Mr.  Lorry,  shaking 
his  head.    "There  is  nobody  to  weep  for  me." 

"  How  can  you  say  that  ?  Wouldn't  She  weep  for  you  ? 
Wouldn't  her  child  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  thank  God.    I  didn't  quite  mean  what  I  said." 

"  It  is  a  thing  to  thank  God  for ;  is  it  not  t  " 

"  Surely,  surely." 

"  If  you  could  say,  with  truth,  to  your  own  solitary  heart, 
to-night,  '  I  have  secured  to  myself  the  love  and  attachment, 
the  gratitude  or  respect,  of  no  human  creature ;  I  have  won 
myself  a  tender  place  in  no  regard  ;  I  have  done  nothing  good 
or  serviceable  to  be  remembered  by!'  your  seventy-eight 
years  would  be  seventy-eight  heavy  curses  ;  would  they  not  1 " 

"  You  say  truly,  Mr.  Carton  ;  I  think  they  would  be." 

Sydney  turned  his  eyes  again  upon  the  fire,  and,  after  a 
silence  of  a  few  moments,  said  : 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  you  : — Does  your  childhood  seem 
far  off  ?  Do  the  days  when  you  sat  at  your  mother's  knee, 
seem  days  very  long  ago  ?  " 

Responding  to  his  softened  manner,  Mr.  Lorry  answered  : 

"  Twenty  years  back,  yes  ;  at  this  time  of  my  life,  no. 
For,  as  I  draw  closer  and  closer  to  the  end,  I  travel  in  the 
circle,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  beginning.  It  seems  to  be 
one  of  the  kind  smoothings  and  preparings  of  the  way.  My 
heart  is  touched  now,  by  many  remembrances  that  had  long 
fallen  asleep,  of  my  pretty  young  mother  (and  I  so  old !),  and 
by  many  associations  of  the  days  when  what  we  call  the 
World  was  not  so  real  with  me,  and  my  faults  were  not  con- 
firmed in  me." 

"  I  understand  the  feeling ! "  exclaimed  Carton,  with  a 
bright  flush.    "  And  you  are  the  better  for  it." 
"  I  hope  so." 

Carton  terminated  the  conversation  here,  by  rising  to  help 


292 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CIT/ES. 


him  on  with  his  outer  coat;  "butyou/^  said  Mr.  Lorry,  revert^ 
ing  to  the  theme,  "you  are  young." 

"Yes,"  said  Carton.  "  I  am  not  old,  but  my  young  way 
was  never  the  way  to  age.    Enough  of  me." 

"  And  of  me,  I  am  sure,"'  said  Mr.  Lorry.  "  Are  you  go 
Ing  out  ?  " 

"  V\\  walk  with  you  to  her  gate.  You  know  my  vagabond 
ftnd  restless  habits.  If  I  should  prowl  about  the  streets  a 
long  time,  don't  be  uneasy ;  I  shall  reappear  in  the  morning. 
You  go  to  the  Court  to-morrow  ?  " 

"Yes,  unhappily." 

"  I  shall  be  there,  but  only  as  one  of  the  crowd.  My  Spy 
will  find  a  place  for  me.    Take  my  arm,  sir." 

Mr.  Lorry  did  so,  and  they  went  down  stairs  and  out  in  the 
streets.  A  few  minutes  brought  them  to  Mr.  Lorry's  destina- 
tion. Carton  left  him  there  ;  but  lingered  at  a  little  distance, 
and  turned  back  to  the  gate  again  when  it  was  shut,  and 
touched  it.  He  had  heard  of  her  going  to  the  prison  every 
day.  "She  came  out  here,"  he  said,  looking  about  him, 
"  turned  this  way,  must  have  trod  on  these  stones  often.  Let 
me  follow  in  her  steps." 

It  was  ten  o'clock  at  night  when  he  stood  before  the  prison 
of  La  Force,  where  she  had  stood  hundreds  of  times.  A  little 
wood-sawyer,  having  closed  his  shop,  was  smoking  his  pipe 
at  his  shop-door. 

"  Good-night,  citizen,"  said  Sydney  Carton,  pausing-  in 
going  by ;  for  the  man  eyed  him  inquisitively. 

"  Good-night,  citizen." 

"  How  goes  the  Republic  ?  " 

"  You  mean  the  Guillotine.  Not  ill.  Sixty-three  to-day. 
We  shall  mount  to  ,  a  hundred  soon.  Samson  and  his  men 
complain  sometimes,  of  being  exhausted.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  He 
is  so  droll,  that  Samson.    Such  a  Barber !  " 

"  Do  you  often  go  to  see  him  " 

"  Shave }    Always.    Every  day.    What  a  barber !  You 
have  seen  him  at  work  ?  " 
"  Never." 

"Go  and  see  him  when  he  has  a  good  batch.  Figure  this 
to  yourself,  citizen  ;  he  shaved  the  sixty-three  to-day,  in  less 
than  two  pipes  !    Less  than  two  pipes.    Word  of  honor  !  " 

As  the  grinning  little  man  held  out  the  pipe  he  was  smok- 
ing, to  show  how  he  timed  the  executioner.  Carton  was  so 
sensible  of  a  rising  desire  to  strike  the  life  out  of  him,  that  he 
turned  away. 


THE  GAME  MADE. 


293 


But  you  are  not  English,"  said  the  wood-sawyer,  "  though 
you  wear  English  dress  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Carton,  pausing  again,  and  answering  over 
his  shoulder. 

"  You  speak  like  a  Frenchman." 

"  I  am  an  old  student  here." 

"Aha,  a  perfect  Frenchman.  Good-night,  Englishman,'' 
Good-night,  citizen." 

**But  go  and  see  that  droll  dog,"  the  little  man  persisted, 
calling  after  him.      And  take  a  pipe  with  you  1  " 

Sydney  had  not  gone  far  out  of  sight,  when  he  stopped  in 
the  middle  of  the  street  under  a  glimmering  lamp,  and  wrote 
with  his  pencil  on  a  scrap  of  paper.  Then,  traversing  with 
the  decided  step  of  one  who  remembered  the  way  well,  several 
dark  and  dirty  streets — much  dirtier  than  usual,  for  the  best 
public  thoroughfares  remained  uncleansed  in  those  times  of 
terror — he  stopped  at  a  chemist's  shop,  which  the  owner  was 
closing  with  his  own  hands.  A  small,  dim,  crooked  shop, 
kept  in  a  tortuous  up-hill  thoroughfare,  by  a  small,  dim, 
crooked  man. 

Giving  this  citizen,  too,  good-night,  as  he  confronted  him 
at  his  counter,  he  laid  the  scrap  of  paper  before  him. 
"  Whew  !  "  the  chemist  whistled  softly,  as  he  read  it.  Hi ! 
hi !  hi  1  " 

Sydney  Carton  took  no  heed,  and  the  chemist  said : 
"  For  you,  citizen  ?  " 
"  For  me." 

"  You  will  be  careful  to  keep  them  separate,  citizen  ?  You 
know  the  consequences  of  mixing  them  ? " 
"  Perfectly." 

Certain  small  packets  were  made  and  given  to  him.  He 
put  them,  one  by  one,  in  the  breast  of  his  inner  coat,  counted 
out  the  money  for  them,  and  deliberately  left  the  shop. 

There  is  nothing  more  to  do,"  said  he  glancing  upward  at 
the  moon,  "  until  to-morrow.    I  can't  sleep." 

It  was  not  a  reckless  manner,  the  manner  in  which  he 
.said  these  words  aloud  under  the  fast-sailing  clouds,  nor  was 
it  more  expressive  of  negligence  than  defiance.  It  was  the 
settled  manner  of  a  tired  man,  who  had  wandered  and  strug- 
gled and  got  lost,  but  who  at  length  struck  into  his  road  ancf 
saw  its  end. 

Long  ago,  when  he  had  been  famous  among  his  earliest 
competitors  as  a  youth  of  great  promise,  he  had  followed  his 


294 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


father  to  the  grave.  His  mother  had  died,  years  before. 
These  solemn  words,  which  had  been  read  at  his  father's 
grave,  arose  in  his  mind  as  he  went  down  the  dark  streets, 
among  the  heavy  shadows,  with  the  moon  and  the  clouds  sail- 
ing on  high  above  him.  "  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life, 
saith  the  Lord  :  he  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were 
dead,  yet  shall  he  live  :  and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth 
in  me  shall  never  die." 

In  a  city  dominated  by  the  axe,  alone  at  night,  with  nat- 
ural sorrow  rising  in  him  for  the  sixty-three  who  had  been 
that  day  put  to  death,  and  for  to-morrow's  victims  then  await 
ing  their  doom  in  the  prisons,  and  still  of  to-morrow's  and 
to-morrow's,  the  chain  of  association  that  brought  the  words 
home,  like  a  rusty  old  ship's  anchor  from  the  deep,  might  have 
been  easily  found.  He  did  not  seek  it,  but  repeated  thera 
and  went  on. 

With  a  solemn  interest  in  the  lighted  windows  where  the 
people  were  going  to  rest,  forgetful  through  a  few  calm  hours 
of  the  horrors  surrounding  them  ;  in  the  towers  of  the  churches 
where  no  prayers  were  said,  for  the  popular  revulsion  had 
even  travelled  that  length  of  self-destruction  from  years  of 
priestly  impostors,  plunderers,  and  profligates  ;  in  the  distant 
burial-places,  reserved,  as  they  wrote  upon  the  gates,  for  Eternal 
Sleep  ;  in  the  abounding  jails  ;  and  in  the  streets  along  which 
the  sixties  rolled  to  a  death  which  had  become  so  common 
and  material,  that  no  sorrowful  story  of  haunting  Spirit  ever 
arose  among  the  people  out  of  all  the  working  of  the  Guillo- 
tine ;  with  a  solemn  interest  in  the  whole  life  and  death  of  the 
city  settling  down  to  its  short  nightly  pause  in  fury ;  Sydney 
Carton  crossed  the  Seine  again  for  the  ligliter  streets. 

Few  coaches  were  abroad,  for  riders  in  coaches  were  lia- 
ble to  be  suspected,  and  gentility  hid  its  head  in  red  night- 
caps, and  put  on  heavy  shoes,  and  trudged.  But  the  theatres 
were  all  well  filled,  and  the  people  poured  cheerfully  out  as 
he  passed,  and  went  chatting  home.  At  one  of  the  theatre 
doors,  there  was  a  little  girl  with  a  mother,  looking  for  a  way 
across  the  street  through  the  mud.  He  carried  the  child 
over,  and  before  the  timid  arm  was  loosed  frcm  his  neck 
asked  her  for  a  kiss. 

"  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,  saith  the  Lord  :  he 
that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live  ; 
and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me,  shall  never  die." 

Now,  that  the  streets  were  quiet,  and  ^he  night  wore  oi> 


THE  GAME  MADE. 


the  words  were  in  the  echoes  of  his  feet,  and  were  in  the  air. 
Perfectly  calm  and  steady,  he  sometimes  repeated  them  to 
himself  as  he  walked  ;  but,  he  heard  them  always. 

The  night  wore  out,  and,  as  he  stood  upon  the  bridge 
listening  to  the  water  as  it  splashed  the  river-walls  of  the  Isl- 
and of  Paris,  where  the  picturesque  confusion  of  houses  and 
cathedral  shone  bright  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  the  day  came 
coldly,  looking  like  a  dead  face  out  of  the  sky.  Then,  the 
night,  with  the  moon  and  the  stars,  turned  pale  and  died,  and 
for  a  little  while  it  seemed  as  if  Creation  were  delivered  over 
to  Death's  dominion. 

But,  the  glorious  sun,  rising,  seemed  to  strike  those  words, 
that  burden  of  the  night,  straight  and  warm  to  his  heart  in 
its  long  bright  rays.  And  looking  along  them,  with  reverently 
shaded  eyes,  a  bridge  of  light  appeared  to  span  the  air  be- 
tween him  and  the  sun,  while  the  river  sparkled  under  it. 

The  strong  tide,  so  swift,  so  deep,  and  certain,  was  like  a 
congenial  friend,  in  the  morning  stillness.  Pie  walked  by  the 
stream,  far  from  the  houses,  and  in  the  light  and  warmtii  of 
the  sun  fell  asleep  on  the  bank.  When  he  awoke  and  was 
afoot  again,  he  lingered  there  yet  a  little  longer,  watching  an 
eddy  that  turned  and  turned  purposeless,  until  the  stream  ab- 
sorbed it,  and  carried  it  on  to  the  sea. — "  Like  me  ! '' 

A  trading-boat,  with  a  sail  of  the  softened  color  of  a  dead 
leaf,  then  glided  into  his  view,  floated  by  him,  and  died  away. 
As  its  silent  track  in  the  water  disappeared,  the  prayer  that 
had  broken  up  out  of  his  heart  for  a  merciful  consideraiion 
of  all  his  poor  blindnesses  and  errors,  ended  in  the  woids, 
"  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life.'' 

Mr.  Lorry  was  already  out  when  he  got  back,  and  it  was 
easy  to  surmise  where  the  good  old  man  was  gone.  Sydney 
Carton  drank  nothing  but  a  little  coffee,  ate  some  bread,  ai.d, 
having  washed  and  changed  to  refresh  himself,  went  out  to 
the  place  of  trial. 

The  court  was  all  astir  and  a-buzz,  when  the  black  sheep 
— whom  many  fell  away  from  in  dread — pressed  him  into  an 
obscure  corner  am.ong  the  crowd.  Mr.  Lorry  was  there,  and 
Doctor  Manette  was  there.  She  was  there,  sitting  beside  her 
father. 

When  her  husband  was  brought  in,  she  turned  a  look 
upon  him,  so  sustaining,  so  encouraging,  so  full  of  admiring 
love  and  pitying  tenderness,  yet  so  courageous  for  his  sake, 
that  it  called  the  healthy  blood  in"o  his  face,  brightened  his 


296 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


glance,  and  animated  his  heart.  If  there  had  been  any  eyes  to 
notice  the  influence  of  her  look,  on  Sydney  Carton,  it  would 
have  been  seen  to  be  the  same  influence  exactly. 

Before  that  unjust  Tribunal,  there  was  little  or  no  order 
of  procedure,  ensuring  to  any  accused  person  any  reasonable 
hearing.  There  could  have  been  no  such  Revolution,  if  all 
laws,  forms,  and  ceremonies,  had  not  first  been  so  monstrously 
abused,  that  the  suicidal  vengeance  01  the  Revolution  was  to 
scatter  them  all  to  the  winds. 

Every  eye  was  turned  to  the  jury  The  same  determined 
patriots  and  good  republicans  as  yesterday  and  the  day  be- 
fore, and  to-morrow  and  the  day  after.  Eager  and  prominent 
among  them,  one  man  with  a  craving  face,  and  his  fingers 
perpetually  hovering  about  his  lips,  whose  appearance  gave 
great  satisfaction  to  the  spectators.  A  life-thirsting,  cannibal- 
looking,  bloody-minded  juryman,  the  Jacques  Three  of  St. 
Antoine.  The  whole  jury,  as  a  jury  of  dogs  empannelled  to 
try  the  deer. 

Every  eye  then  turned  to  the  five  ju.^  ^^es  and  public  prose- 
cutor. No  favorable  leaning  in  that  quarter  to-day.  A  fell, 
uncompromising,  murderous  business-meaning  there.  Every 
eye  then  sought  some  other  eye  in  the  crowd,  and  gleamed  at 
it  approvingly  ;  and  heads  nodded  at  one  another,  before 
bending  forward  with  a  strained  attention. 

Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay.  Released  yesterday. 
Re-accused  and  retaken  yesterday.  Indictment  delivered  to 
him  last  night.  Suspected  and  Denounced  enemy  of  the 
Republic,  Aristocrat,  one  of  a  family  of  tyrants,  one  of  a  race 
proscribed,  for  that  they  had  used  their  abolished  privileges 
to  the  infamous  oppression  of  the  people.  Charles  Evre- 
monde, called  Darnay,  in  right  of  such  proscription,  absolutely 
Dead  in  Law. 

To  this  effect,  in  as  few  or  fewer  words,  the  Public  ProsC" 
cutor. 

The  President  asked,  was  the  Accused  openly  denounced 
or  secretly  1 

Openly,  President." 
"  By  whom  .> 

"  Three  voices.    Ernest  Defarge,  wine-vendor  of  St.  An 
toine." 
"Good." 

**Therfese  Defarge,  his  wife/' 
•'Good.'' 


THE  GAME  MADE, 


297 


"Alexandre  Manette,  physician." 

A  great  uproar  took  place  in  the  court,  and  in  the  midst  ol 
it  Doctor  Manette  was  seen,  pale  and  trembling,  standing 
where  he  had  been  seated. 

"  President,  I  indignantly  protest  to}outhat  this  is  a  forgery 
and  a  fraud.  You  know  the  accused  to  be  the  husband  of  my 
daughter.  My  daughter,  and  those  dear  to  her,  are  far  dearei 
to  me  than  my  life.  Who  and  where  is  the  false  conspirator 
who  says  that  I  denounce  the  husband  of  my  child ! 

Citizen  Manette,  be  tranquil.  To  fail  in  submission  to 
the  authority  of  the  Tribunal  would  be  to  put  yourself  out  of 
Law.  As  to  what  is  dearer  to  you  than  life,  nothing  can  be 
so  dear  to  a  good  citizen  as  the  Republic." 

Loud  acclamations  hailed  this  rebuke.  The  President 
rang  his  bell  and  with  warmth  resumed. 

"  If  the  Republic  should  demand  of  you  the  sacrifice  of  your 
child  herself,  you  would  have  no  duty  but  to  sacrifice  her. 
Listen  to  what  is  to  follow.    In  the  meanwhile,  be  silent 

Frantic  acclamations  were  again  raised.  Doctor  Manette 
sat  down,  with  his  eyes  looking  around,  and  his  lips  trembling  ; 
his  daughter  drew  closer  to  him.  The  craving  man  on  the 
jury  rubbed  his  hands  together  and  restored  the  usual  hand  to 
his  mouth. 

Defarge  was  produced,  when  the  court  was  quiet  enough 
to  admit  of  his  being  heard,  and  rapidly  expounded  the  story 
of  the  imprisonment,  and  of  his  having  been  a  mere  boy  in  the 
Doctor's  service,  and  of  the  release,  and  of  the  state  of  the 
prisoner  when  released  and  delivered  to  him.  This  short  ex- 
amination followed,  for  the  court  was  quick  with  its  work. 

"  You  did  good  service  at  the  taking  of  the  Bastile,  citi- 
zen ? " 

"  I  believe  so." 

Plere,  an  excited  woman  screeched  from  the  crowd  ;  "  You 
were  one  of  the  best  patriots  there.  Why  not  say  so  ?  You 
were  a  cannonier  that  day  there,  and  you  were  among  the  first 
to  enter  the  accursed  fortress  when  it  tell.  Patriots,  I  speak 
the  truth  I " 

It  was  The  Vengeance  who,  amidst  the  warm  commen- 
dations of  the  audience,  thus  assisted  the  proceedings.  The 
President  rang  his  bell  ;  but,  The  Vengeance,  warming  with 
encouragement,  shrieked,  "  I  defy  that  bell ! "  wherein  she 
was  likewise  much  commended. 


298 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


"  Inform  the  Tribunal  of  what  you  did  that  day  within  the 
Bastile,  citizen." 

"  I  knew,"  said  Defarge,  looking  down  at  his  wife,  who 
stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps  on  which  he  was  raised,  look- 
ing steadily  up  at  him  ;  I  knew  that  this  prisoner,  of  whom 
I  speak,  had  been  confined  in  a  cell  known  as  One  Hundred 
and  Five,  North  Tower.  I  knew  it  from  himself.  He  knew 
himself  by  no  other  name  than  One  Hundred  and  Five,  North 
Tower,  when  he  made  shoes  under  my  care.  As  I  serve  my 
gun  that  day,  I  resolve,  when  the  place  shall  fall,  to  examine 
that  cell.  It  falls.  I  mount  to  the  cell,  with  a  fellow-citizen 
w^ho  is  one  of  the  Jury,  directed  by  a  jailer.  I  examine  it 
very  closely.  In  a  hole  in  the  chimney,  where  a  stone  has 
been  worked  out  and  replaced,  I  find  a  written  paper.  This  is 
that  written  paper.  I  have  made  it  my  business  to  examine  some 
specimens  of  the  writing  of  Dr.  Manette.  This  is  the  writing 
of  Doctor  Manette.  I  confide  this  paper  in  the  writing  of 
Doctor  Manette,  to  the  hands  of  the  President." 

"  Let  it  be  read." 

In  a  dead  silence  and  stillness — the  prisoner  under  trial 
looking  lovingly  at  his  wife,  his  wife  only  looking  from  him  to 
look  with  solicitude  at  her  father.  Doctor  Manette  keeping 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  reader,  Madame  Defarge  never  taking 
hers  from  the  prisoner,  Defarge  never  taking  his  from  his 
feasting  wife,  and  all  the  other  eyes  there  intent  upon  the 
Doctor,  who  saw  none  of  them — the  paper  was  read,  as  follows. 


CHAPTER  X, 

THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  THE  SHADOW, 

"I,  Alexandre  Manette,  unfortunate  physician,  native 
Beauvais,  and  afterwards  resident  in  Paris,  write  this  melan- 
choly paper  in  my  doleful  cell  in  the  Bastile,  during  the 
last  month  of  the  year  1767.  I  write  it  at  stolen  intervals, 
under  every  difficulty.  I  design  to  secrete  it  in  the  wall  of 
the  chimney,  where  I  have  slowly  and  laboriously  made  a 
place  of  concealment  for  it.  Some  pitying  hand  may  find  it 
there,  when  I  and  my  sorrows  are  dust. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  THE  SHADOW. 


"  These  words  are  formed  by  the  rusty  iron  point  with 
which  I  write  with  difficulty  in  scrapings  of  soot  and  charcoal 
from  the  chimney,  mixed  with  blood,  in  the  last  month  of  the 
tenth  year  of  my  captivity.  Hope  has  quite  departed  from 
my  breast.  I  know  from  terrible  warnings  I  have  noted  in 
myself  that  my  reason  will  not  long  remain  unimpaired,  but  I 
solemnly  declare  that  I  am  at  this  time  in  the  possession  of  my 
right  mind— that  my  memory  is  exact  and  circumstantial — • 
and  that  I  write  the  truth  as  I  shall  answer  for  these  my 
last  recorded  words,  whether  they  be  ever  read  by  men  or  no^ 
at  the  Eternal  Judgment-seat. 

"  One  cloudy  moonlight  night,  in  the  third  week  of  Decem- 
ber (I  think  the  twenty-second  of  the  month),  in  the  year  1757, 
I  was  walking  on  a  retired  part  of  the  quay  by  the  Seine  for 
the  refreshment  of  the  frosty  air,  at  an  hour's  distance  from 
my  place  of  residence  in  the  Street  of  the  School  of  Medicine, 
when  a  carriage  came  along  behind  me,  driving  very  fast.  As 
I  stood  aside  to  let  that  carriage  pass,  apprehensive  that  it 
might  otherwise  run  me  down,  a  head  was  put  out  at  the  win- 
dow, and  a  voice  called  to  the  driver  to  stop. 

"  The  carriage  stopped  ,  as  soon  as  the  driver  could  rein 
in  his  horses,  and  the  same  voice  called  me  by  my  name.  I 
answered.  The  carriage  was  then  so  far  in  advance  of  me 
that  two  gentlemen  had  time  to  open  the  door  and  alight  be- 
fore I  came  up  with  it.  I  observed  that  they  were  both 
wrapped  in  cloaks,  and  appeared  to  conceal  themselves.  As 
they  stood  side  by.  side  near  the  carriage  door,  I  also  ob- 
served that  they  both  looked  of  about  my  own  age,  or  rather 
j^ounger,  and  that  they  were  greatly  alike,  in  stature,  manner, 
voice,  and  (as  far  as  I  could  see)  face  too. 
*  You  are  Doctor  Manette  ? '  said  one. 

"'I  am.' 

"  'Doctor  Manette,  formerly  of  Beauvais,'  said  the  other; 
*  the  young  physician,  originally  an  expert  surgeon,  who  within 
the  last  year  or  two  has  made  a  rising  reputation  in  Paris  ? ' 

"  *  Gentlemen,'  1  returned,  *  lam  that  Doctor  Manette  of 
whom  you  speak  so  graciously.' 

"  *  We  have  been  to  your  residence,'  said  the  first,  'and 
not  being  so  fortunate  as  to  find  you  there,  and  being  informed 
that  you  were  probably  walking  in  this  direction,  we  followed 
in  the  hope  of  overtaking  you.  Will  you  please  enter  the  car- 
riage ? ' 

"  The  manner  of  both  was  imperious,  and  they  both  moved, 


300 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


as  these  words  were  spoken,  so  as  to  place  me  between  them 
selves  and  the  carriage  door.  They  were  armed.  I  was  not 
'  Gentlemen/  said  I,  *  pardon  me  ;  but  I  usually  inquire 
who  does  me  the  honor  to  seek  my  assistance,  and  what  is  the 
nature  of  the  case  to  which  I  am  summoned.' 

"  The  reply  to  this  was  made  by  him  who  had  spoken 
second,  *  Doctor,  your  clients  are  people  of  condition.  As 
to  the  nature  of  the  case,  our  confidence  in  your  skill  assures 
us  that  you  will  ascertain  it  for  yourself  better  than  we  can 
describe  it.  Enough,  Will  you  please  to  enter  the  car- 
riage ? ' 

I  could  do  nothing  but  comply,  and  I  entered  it  in  silence. 
They  both  entered  after  me — the  last  springing  in,  after  putting 
up  the  steps.  The  carriage  turned  about,  and  drove  on  at  its 
former  speed. 

I  repeat  this  conversation  exactly  as  it  occurred.  I 
have  no  doubt  that  it  is,  word  for  word,  the  same.  I  describe 
everything  exactly  as  it  took  place,  constraining  my  mind  not 
to  wander  from  the  task.  Where  I  make  the  broken  marks 
that  follow  here,  I  leave  off  for  the  time,  and  put  my  paper  in 
its  hiding-place.    ^    ^    ^  ^ 

"The  carriage  left  the  streets  behind,  passed  the  North 
Barrier,  and  emerged  upon  the  country  road.  At  two-thirds 
of  a  league  from  the  Barrier — I  did  not  estimate  the  distance 
at  that  time,  but  afterwards  when  I  traversed  it — it  struck  out 
of  the  main  avenue,  and  presently  stopped  at  a  solitary  house. 
We  all  three  alighted,  and  walked,  by  a  damp  soft  footpath  in 
a  garden  where  a  neglected  fountain  had  overflowed,  to  the 
door  of  the  house.  It  was  not  opened  immediately,  in  answer 
to  the  ringing  of  the  bell,  and  one  of  my  two  conductors  struck 
the  man  who  opened  it,  with  his  heavy  riding-glove,  across 
the  face. 

"  There  was  nothing  in  this  action  to  attract  my  particular 
attention,  for  I  had  seen  common  people  struck  more  com- 
monly than  dogs.  But,  the  other  of  the  two,  being  angry  like* 
wise,  struck  the  man  in  like  manner  with  his  arm ;  the  look 
and  bearing  of  the  brothers  were  then  so  exactly  alike,  that 
I  then  first  perceived  them  to  be  twin  brothers. 

From  the  time  of  our  alighting  at  the  uter  gate  (which 
we  found  locked,  and  which  one  of  the  brothers  had  opened 
to  admit  us,  and  had  re-locked),  I  had  heard  cries  proceeding 
from  an  upper  chamber.  I  was  conducted  to  this  chamber 
straight,  the  cries  growing  louder  as  we  ascended  the  stairs^ 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  THE  SHADOW.  30, 

and  I  found  a  patient  in  a  high  fever  of  the  brain,  lying  on 
a  bed. 

The  patient  was  a  woman  of  great  beauty,  and  young  \ 
assuredly  not  much  past  twenty.  Her  hair  was  torn  and 
ragged,  and  her  arms  were  bound  to  her  sides  with  sashes 
and  handkerchiefs.  I  noticed  that  these  bonds  were  all  por- 
tions of  a  gentleman's  dress.  On  one  of  them,  which  was  a 
fringed  scarf  of  ceremony,  I  saw  the  armorial  bearings  of  a 
Noble,  and  the  letter  E. 

^'  I  saw  this  within  the  first  minute  of  my  contemplation  of 
the  patient ;  for,  in  her  restless  strivings  she  had  turned  over 
on  her  face  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  had  drawn  the  end  of  the 
scarf  into  her  mouth,  and  was  in  danger  of  suffocation.  My 
first  act  was  to  put  out  my  hand  to  relieve  her  breathing;  and 
in  moving  the  scarf  aside,  the  embroidery  in  the  corner  caught 
my  sight. 

"  I  turned  her  gently  over,  placed  my  hands  upon  her 
breast  to  calm  her  and  keep  her  down,  and  looked  into  her 
face.  Her  eyes  were  dilated  and  wild,  and  she  constantly 
uttered  piercing  shrieks,  and  repeated  the  words,  *  My  hus- 
band, my  father,  and  my  brother ! '  and  then  counted  up  to 
twelve,  and  said,  *  Hush  ! '  For  an  instant,  and  no  more,  she 
would  pause  to  listen,  and  then  the  piercing  shrieks  would 
begin  again,  and  she  would  repeat  the  cry,  *  My  husband,  my. 
father,  and  my  brother ! '  and  would  count  up  to  twelve,  and 
say  *  Hush  ! '  There  was  no  variation  in  the  order,  or  the 
manner.  There  was  no  cessation,  but  the  regular  moment's 
pause,  in  the  utterance  of  these  sounds. 

"  *  How  long,'  I  asked,  Mias  this  lasted  ? ' 

*'  To  distinguish  the  brothers,  I  will  call  them  the  elder 
and  the  younger ;  by  the  elder,  I  mean  him  who  exercised  the 
most  authority.  It  was  the  elder  who  replied,  *  Since  about 
this  hour  last  night.'  ' 

'  She  has  a  husband,  a  father,  and  a  brother? ' 

" '  A  brother.' 

"  *  I  do  not  address  her  brother  ? ' 
"  He  answered  with  great  contempt,  *  No.' 
" '  She  has  some  recent  association  with  the  number 
twelve  ? ' 

The  younger  brother  impatiently  rejoined,  'With  twelve 
o'clock ' 

"  *  See  gentlemen,'  said  I,  still  keeping  my  hands  upon  her 
breast,  '  how  useless  I  am,  as  you  have  brought  me  1    If  I 


^  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

had  known  what  I  was  coming  to  see,  I  could  have  come  pro* 
vided.  As  it  is,  time  must  be  lost.  There  are  no  medicines 
to  be  obtained  in  this  lonely  place/ 

"The  elder  brother  looked  to  the  younger,  who  said 
haughtily,  *  There  is  a  case  of  medicines  here  ; '  and  brought 
it  from  a  closet,  and  put  it  on  the  table.  ^  *  ^  ^ 
^  "  I  opened  some  of  the  bottles,  smelt  them,  and  put  the 
stoppers  to  my  lips.  If  I  had  wanted  to  use  anything  save 
narcotic  medicines  that  were  poisons  in  themselves,  I  would 
not  have  administered  any  of  those. 

"  *  Do  you  doubt  them  ? '  asked  the  younger  brother. 

"  *  You  see,  monsieur,  I  am  going  to  use  them,'  I  replied, 
and  said  no  more. 

"  I  made  the  patient  swallow,  with  great  difficulty,  and 
after  many  efforts,  the  dose  that  I  desired  to  give.  As  I  in- 
tended to  repeat  it  after  a  while,  and  as  it  was  necessary  to 
watch  its  influence,  I  then  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  bed. 
There  was  a  timid  and  suppressed  woman  in  attendance 
(wife  of  the  man  down  stairs),  who  had  retreated  into  a 
corner..  The  house  w^as  damp  and  decayed,  indifferently  fur- 
nished— evidently,  recently  occupied  and  temporarily  used. 
Some  thick  old  hangings  had  been  nailed  up  before  the  win- 
dows, to  deaden  the  sound  of  the  shrieks.  They  continued 
to  be  uttered  in  their  regular  succession,  with  the  cry,  *  My 
husband,  my  father,  and  my  brother ! '  the  counting  up  to 
twelve,  and  '  Hush  ! '  The  frenzy  was  so  violent,  that  I  had 
not  unfastened  the  bandages  restraining  the  arms  j  but,  I  had 
looked  to  them,  to  see  that  they  were  not  painful.  The  only 
spark  of  encouragement  in  the  case,  was,  that  my  hand  upon 
the  sufferer's  breast  had  this  much  soothing  influence,  that 
for  minutes  at  a  time  it  tranquillized  the  figure.  It  had  no 
effect  upon  the  cries  ;  no  pendulum  could  be  more  regular. 

"  For  the  reason  that  my  hand  had  this  effect  (I  assume), 
I  had  sat  by  the  side  of  the  bed  for  half  an  hour,  with  the 
two  brothers  looking  on,  before  the  elder  said  : 

"'There  is  another  patient.' 

"  I  was  startled,  and  asked,  *  Is  it  a  pressing  case  ?  " 

"  *  You  had  better  see,'  he  carelessly  answered  ;  and  took 
up  a  light.    ^    ^    ^  ^ 

"  The  other  patient  lay  in  a  back  room  across  a  second 
staircase,  which  was  a  species  of  loft  over  a  stable.  There 
was  a  low  plastered  ceiling  to  a  part  of  it ;  the  rest  was  open, 
to  the  ridge  of  the  tiled  roof,  and  there  were  beams  across, 


THE  SUBSTANCE  GF  THE  SHADOW.  303 
* 

Hay  and  stjraw  were  stored  in  that  portion  of  the  place,  fagots 
for  firing,  and  a  heap  of  apples  in  sand.  I  had  to  pass 
through  that  part,  to  get  at  the  other.  My  memory  is  circum- 
stantial and  unshaken.  I  try  it  with  these  details,  and  I  see 
them  all,  in  this  my  cell  in  the  Bastile,  near  the  close  of  the 
tenth  year  of  my  captivity,  as  I  saw  them  all  that  night. 

"  On  some  hay  on  the  ground,  with  a  cushion  thrown 
ainder  his  head,  lay  a  handsome  peasant  boy — a  boy  of  not 
more  than  seventeen  at  the  most.  He  lay  on  his  back,  with 
his  teeth  set,  his  right  hand  clenched  on  his  breast,  and  his 
glaring  eyes  looking  straight  upward.  I  could  not  see  where 
his  wound  was,  as  I  kneeled  on  one  knee  over  him  ;  but,  I 
could  see  that  he  was  dying  of  a  wound  from  a  sharp  point. 

,  "  *  I  am  a  doctor,  my  poor  fellow,'  said  I.  *  Let  me  ex- 
amine it.' 

"  '  I  do  not  want  it  examined,'  he  answered  ;  *let  it  be.' 

"  It  was  under  his  hand,  and  I  soothed  him  to  let  me 
move  his  hand  away.  The  wound  was  a  sword-thrust,  re- 
ceived from  twenty  to  twenty-four  hours  before,  but  no  skill 
could  have  saved  him  if  it  had  been  looked  to  without  delay. 
He  was  then  dying  fast.  As  I  turned  my  eyes  to  the  elder 
brother,  I  saw  him  looking  down  at  this  handsome  boy  whose 
life  was  ebbing  out,  as  if  he  were  a  wounded  bird,  or  hare,  or 
rabbit ;  not  at  all  as  if  he  were  a  fellow-creature. 

"  '  How  has  this  been  done,  monsieur  ? '  said  I. 

"  *  A  crazed  young  common  dog !  A  serf !  Forced  my 
brother  to  draw  upon  him,  and  has  fallen  by  my  brother's 
sword — like  a  gentleman.' 

"There  was  no  touch  of  pity,  sorrow,  or  kindred  hu- 
manity, in  this  answer.  The  speaker  seemed  to  acknowledge 
that  it  was  inconvenient  to  have  that  different  order  of  crea- 
ture dying  there,  and  that  .it  would  have  been  better  if  he 
had  died  in  the  usual  obscure  routine  of  his  vermin  kind.  He 
was  quite  incapable  of  any  compassionate  feeling  about  the 
boy,  or  about  his  fate. 

*^  The  boy's  eyes  had  slowly  moved  to  him  as  he  had 
spoken,  and  they  now  slowly  moved  to  me. 

Doctor,  they  are  very  proud,  these  Nobles  ;  but  we  com- 
mon dogs  are  proud  too,  sometimes.  They  plunder  us,  out- 
tage  us,  beat  us,  kill  us ;  but  we  have  a  little  pride  left,  some- 
times.   She  have  you  seen  her.  Doctor  ? ' 

**  The  shrieks  and  the  cries  were  audible  there,  though 
subdued  by  the  distance.  He  referred  to  them,  as  if  she  were 
lying  in  our  presence. 


^  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 
"  I  said,  *  I  have  seen  her.' 

"  '  She  is  my  sister,  Doctor.  They  have  had  their  shame 
ful  rights,  these  Nobles,  in  the  modesty  and  virtue  of  oul 
sisters,  many  years,  but  we  have  had  good  girls  among  us.  I 
know  it,  and  have  heard  my  father  say  so.  She  was  a  good 
girl.  She  was  betrothed  to  a  good  young  man,  too  :  a  tenant 
of  his.  We  were  all  tenants  of  his — that  man's  who  stands 
there.    The  other  is  his  brother,  the  worst  of  a  bad  race.' 

^'  It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  the  boy  gathered 
bodily  force  to  speak ;  but,  his  spirit  spoke  with  a  dreadful 
emphasis. 

"  *We  were  so  robbed  by  that  man  who  stands  there,  as 
all  we  common  dogs  are  by  those  superior  Beings — taxed  by 
him  without  Inercy,  obliged  to  work  for  him  without  pay, 
obliged  to  grind  our  corn  at  his  mill,  obliged  to  feed  scores 
of  his  tame  birds  on  our  wretched  crops,  and  forbidden  for 
our  lives  to  keep  a  single  tame  bird  of  our  own,  pillaged  and 
plundered  to  that  degree  that  when  we  chanced  to  have  a 
l3it  of  meat,  we  ate  it  in  fear,  with  the  door  barred  and  the 
shutters  closed,  that  his  people  should  not  see  it  and  take  it 
from  us — I  say,  we  were  so  robbed,  and  hunted,  and  were 
made  so  poor,  that  our  father  told  us  it  was  a  dreadful  thing 
to  bring  a  child  into  the  world,  and  that  what  we  should  most 
pray  for,  was,  that  our  women  might  be  barren  and  our  miser- 
able race  die  out ! ' 

I  had  never  before  seen  the  sense  of  being  oppressed, 
bursting  forth  like  a  fire.  I  had  supposed  that  it  must  be 
latent  in  the  people  somewhere ;  but,  I  had  never  seen  it 
break  out,  until  I  saw  it  in  the  dying  boy. 

" '  Nevertheless,  Doctor,  my  sister  married.  He  was  aih 
ing  at  that  time,  poor  fellow,  and  she  married  her  lover,  that 
she  might  tend  and  comfort  him  in  our  cottage — our  dog-hut, 
as  that  man  would  call  it.  She  had  not  been  married  many 
weeks,  when  that  man's  brother  saw  her  and  admired  her, 
and  asked  t.iat  man  to  lend  her  to  him — for  what  are  husbands 
among  us  !  He  was  willing  enough,  but  my  sister  was  good 
and  virtuous,  and  hated  his  brother  with  a  hatred  as  strong 
as  mine.  What  did  the  two  then,  to  persuade  her  husband  to 
use  his  influence  with  her,  to  make  her  willing  ? ' 

The  boy's  eyes,  which  had  been  fixed  on  mine,  slowly 
turned  to  the  looker-on,  and  I  saw  in  the  two  faces  that  all 
he  said  was  true.  The  two  opposing  kinds  of  pride  confront- 
ing one  another,  I  can  see,  even  in  this  Bastile ;  the  gentl© 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  THE  SHADOW. 


man's,  all  negligent  indifference  ;  the  peasant's,  all  trodden 
down  sentiment,  and  passionate  revenge. 

"  '  You  know,  Doctor,  that  it  is  among  the  Rights  of  these 
Nobles  to  harness  us  common  dogs  to  carts,  and  drive  us. 
They  so  harnessed  him  and  drove  him.  You  know  that  it  is 
among  their  Rights  to  keep  us  in  their  grounds  all  night, 
quieting  the  frogs,  in  order  that  their  noble  sleep  may  not  be 
disturbed.  They  kept  him  out  in  the  unwholesome  mists  at 
.light,  and  ordered  him  back  into  his  harness  in  the  day. 
But  he  was  not  persuaded.  No !  Taken  out  of  harness 
one  day  at  noon,  to  feed — if  he  could  find  food — he  sobbed 
twelve  times,  once  for  every  stroke  of  the  bell,  and  died  on 
her  bosom,' 

"  Nothing  human  could  have  held  life  in  the  boy  but  his 
determination  to  tell  all  his  wrong.  He  forced  back  the 
gathering  shadows  of  death,  as  he  forced  his  clenched  right 
hand  to  remain  clenched,  and  to  cover  his  wound. 

" '  Then,  with  that  man's  permission  and  even  with  his 
aid,  his  brother  took  her  away  ;  in  spite  of  what  I  know  she 
must  have  told  his  brother — and  what  that  is,  will  not  be 
long  unknown  to  you.  Doctor,  if  it  is  now — his  brother  took 
her  away — for  his  pleasure  and  diversion,  for  a  little  while. 
I  saw  her  pass  me  on  the  road.  When  I  took  the  tidings 
home,  our  father's  heart  burst ;  he  never  spoke  one  of  the 
words^  that  filled  it.  I  took  my  young  sister  (for  I  have  an- 
other) to  a  place  beyond  the  reach  of  this  man,  and  where, 
at  least,  she  will  never  be  his  vassal.  Then,  I  tracked  the 
brother  here,  and  last  night  climbed  in — a  common  dog,  but 
sword  in  hand. — Where  is  the  loft  window  ?  It  was  some- 
where here  ? ' 

"  The  room  was  darkening  to  his  sight ;  the  world  was 
narrowing  around  him.  I  glanced  about  me,  and  saw  that  the 
hay  and  straw  were  trampled  over  the  floor,  as  if  there  had 
been  a  struggle. 

*  She  heard  me,  and  ran  in.  I  told  her  not  to  come  near 
us  till  he  was  dead.  He  came  in  and  first  tossed  me  some 
pieces  of  money ;  then  struck  at  me  with  a  whip.  But  I, 
though  a  common  dog,  so  struck  at  him  as  to  make  him 
draw.  Let  him  break  into  as  many  pieces  as  he  will,  the 
sword  that  he  stained  with  my  common  blood  ;  he  drew  to 
defend  himself — thrust  at  me  with  all  his  skill  for  his  life.' 

"  My  glance  had  fallen,  but  a  few  moments  before,  on  the 
fragments  of  a  broken  sword,  lying  among  the  hay.  That 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


weapon  was  a  gentleman\s.  In  another  place,  lay  an  old 
sword  that  seemed  to  have  been  a  soldier's. 

Now,  lift  me  up,  Doctor;  lift  me  up.    Where  is  he  ? ' 

"  *  H?  is  not  here,'  I  said,  supporting  the  boy,  and  think- 
ing that  'ic  referred  to  the  brother. 

"  *  He  !  Proud  as  these  nobles  are,  he  is  afraid  to  see 
me.    Where  is  the  man  who  was  here  1   Turn  my  face  to  himc' 

"  I  did  so,  raising  the  boy's  head  against  my  knee.  But^ 
invested  for  the  moment  with  extraordinary  power,  he  raised 
himself  completely  :  obliging  me  to  rise  too,  or  I  could  not 
have  still  supported  him. 

'  Marquis,'  said  the  boy,  turned  to  him  with  his  eyes 
opened  wide,  and  his  right  hand  raised,  ^  in  the  days  when 
all  these  things  are  to  be  answered  for,  I  summon  you  and 
yours,  to  the  last  of  your  bad  race,  to  answer  for  them.  I 
mark  this  cross  of  blood  upon  you,  as  a  sign  that  I  do  it. 
In  the  days  when  all  these  things  are  to  be  answered  for,  I 
summon  your  brother,  the  worst  of  the  bad  race,  to  answer 
for  them  separately.  I  mark  this  cross  of  blood  upon  him,  as 
a  sign  that  I  do  it.' 

^*  Twice,  he  put  his  hand  to  the  wound  in  his  breast,  and 
with  his  forefinger  drew  a  cross  in  the  air.  He  stood  for  an 
instant  with  the  finger  yet  raised,  and,  as  it  dropped,  he 
dropped  with  it,  and  I  laid  him  down  dead.  ^    ^  ^ 

When  I  returned  to  the  bedside  of  the  young  woman,  I 
found  her  raving  in  precisely  the  same  order  and  continuity. 
I  knew  that  this  might  last  for  many  hours,  and  that  it  would 
probably  end  in  the  silence  of  the  grave. 

"  I  repeated  the  medicines  I  had  given  her,  and  I  sat  at  the 
side  of  the  bed  until  the  night  was  far  advanced.  She  never 
abated  the  piercing  quality  of  her  shrieks,  never  stumbled  in 
the  distinctness  or  the  order  of  her  words.  They  v/ere  al- 
ways *  My  husband,  my  father,  and  my  brother  !  One,  two, 
three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine,  ten,  eleven,  twelve. 
Hush  ! ' 

"  This  lasted  twenty-six  hours  from  the  time  when  I  first 
saw  her.  I  had  come  and  gone  twice,  and  was  again  sitting 
by  her,  when  she  began  to  falter.  I  did  what  little  could  be 
done  to  assist  that  opportunity,  and  by  and  by  she  sank  into 
a  lethargy,  and  lay  like  the  dead. 

''It  was  as  if  the  wind  and  rain  had  lulled  at  last,  after  a 
long  and  feaifiil  storm.  I  released  her  arms,  and  called  the 
woman  to  assist  me  to  compose  her  figure  and  the  dress  she 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  THE  SHADOW. 


had  torn.  It  was  then  that  I  knew  her  condition  to  be  that  of 
one  in  whom  the  first  expectations  of  being  a  mother  have 
arisen ;  and  it  was  then  that  I  lost  the  little  hope  I  had  had 
of  her. 

"  '  Is  she  dead  ? '  asked  the  Marquis,  whom  I  will  still  de- 
scribe as  the  elder  brother,  coming  booted  into  the  room  from 
his  horse. 

"  *  Not  dead,'  said  I ;  *  but  like  to  die.' 

"  *  What  strength  there  is  in  these  common  bodies  ! '  he 
said,  looking  down  at  her  with  some  curiosity. 

"  *  There  is  prodigious  strength,'  I  answered  him,  *  in  sor- 
row and  despair.' 

"  He  first  laughed  at  my  words,  and  then  frowned  at  them. 
He  moved  a  chair  with  his  foot  near  to  mine,  ordered  the 
woman  away,  and  said  in  a  subdued  voice, 

" '  Doctor,  finding  my  brother  in  this  difficulty  with  these 
hinds,  I  recommended  that  your  aid  should  be  invited.  Your 
reputation  is  high,  and,  as  a  young  man  with  your  fortune  to 
make,  you  are  probably  mindful  of  your  interest.  The  things 
that  you  see  here,  are  things  to  be  seen,  and  not  spoken  of.' 

"  I  listened  to  the  patient's  breathing,  and  avoided  answer- 
ing. 

"  *  Do  you  honor  me  with  your  attention.  Doctor  \ ' 

Monsieur,'  said  I,  *in  my  profession,  the  communica- 
tions of  patients  are  alwa3^s  received  in  confidence.'  I  was 
guarded  in  my  answer,  for  I  was  troubled  in  my  ir.i  id  with 
what  I  had  heard  and  seen. 

"  Her  breathing  was  so  difficult  to  trace,  that  I  carefully 
tried  the  pulse  and  the  heart.  There  was  life,  and  no  more. 
Looking  round  as  I  resumed  my  seat,  I  found  both  the  brothers 
intent  upon  me.    ^    ^    ^  ^ 

"  I  write  with  so  much  difficulty,  the  cold  is  so  severe,  I 
am  so  fearful  of  being  detected  and  consigned  to  an  under- 
ground cell  and  total  darkness,  that  I  must  abridge  this  nar- 
rative. There  is  no  confusion  or  failure  in  my  memoiy  ;  it 
can  recall,  and  could  detail,  every  word  that  was  ever  spoken 
between  me  and  those  brothers. 

"  She  lingered  for  a  week.  Towards  the  last,  I  could  un- 
derstand some  few  syllables  that  she  said  to  me,  by  placing 
my  ear  close  to  her  lips.  She  asked  me  where  she  was,  and 
I  told  her;  who  I  was,  and  I  told  her.  It  was  in  vain  that  I 
asked  her  for  her  family  name.  She  faintly  shook  her  head 
upon  the  pillow,  and  kept  her  secret,  as  the  boy  had  done. 


3o8 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


"  I  had  no  opportunity  of  asking  her  any  question,  until  1 
had  told  the  brothers  she  was  sinking  fast,  and  could  not  live 
another  d^y.  Until  then,  though  no  one  was  ever  presented 
to  her  consciousness  save  the  woman  and  myself,  one  or  other 
of  them  had  always  jealously  sat  behind  the  curtain  at  the 
head  of  the  bed  when  I  was  there.  But  when  it  came  to  that^ 
they  seemed  careless  what  communication  I  might  hold  with 
her  ;  as  if — the  thought  passed  through  my  mind — I  were 
dying  too. 

^'  I  always  observed  that  their  pride  bitterly  resented  the 
younger  brother's  (as  I  call  him)  having  crossed  swords  with 
a  peasant,  and  that  peasant  a  boy.  The  only  consideration 
that  appeared  to  affect  the  mind  of  either  of  them  was  the 
consideration  that  this  was  highly  degrading  to  the  family,  and 
was  ridiculous.  As  often  as  I  caught  the  younger  brother's 
eyes,  their  expression  reminded  me  that  he  disliked  me  deeply, 
for  knowing  what  I  knew  from  the  boy.  He  was  smoother 
and  more  polite  to  me  than  the  elder ;  but  I  saw  this.  I  also 
saw  that  I  was  an  incumbrance  in  the  mind  of  the  elder,  too. 

"  My  patient  died,  two  hours  before  midnight — at  a  time, 
by  my  watch,  answering  almost  to  the  minute  when  I  had  first 
seen  her.  I  was  alone  with  her,  when  her  forlorn  young  head 
drooped  gently  on  one  side,  and  all  her  earthly  wrongs  and 
sorrows  ended. 

The  brothers  were  waiting  in  a  room  down  stairs,  im- 
patient to  ride  away.  I  had  heard  them,  alone  at  the  bedside, 
striking  their  boots  with  their  riding-whips,  and  loitering  up 
and  down. 

"  '  At  last  she  is  dead  ? '  said  the  elder,  when  1  went  in. 
"  *  She  is  dead,'  said  I. 

"  *  I  congratulate  you,  my  brother,'  were  his  words  as  he 
turned  round. 

"  He  had  before  offered  me  money,  which  I  had  postponed 
taking.  H«  now  gave  me  a  rouleau  of  gold.  I  took  it  from 
his  hand,  but  laid  it  on  the  table.  I  had  considered  the  ques- 
tion, and  had  resolved  to  accept  nothing. 

"  *  Pray  excuse  me,'  said  I.  *  Under  the  circumstances,  no.' 

"  They  exchanged  looks,  but  bent  their  heads  to  me  as  I 
bent  mine  to  them,  and  we  parted  without  another  word  on 
either  side.  ^ 

"  I  am  weary,  weary,  wear}^ — worn  down  by  misf^ry  I  can 
not  read  what  I  have  written  with  this  gr.unt  hand. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  rouleau  of  gold  was  left  at  mv 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  THE  SHADOW. 


door  in  a  little  box,  with  my  name  on  the  outside.  From  the 
first  I  had  anxiously  considered  what  I  ought  to  do.  I  de- 
cided, that  day,  to  write  privately  to  the  Minister,  stating  the 
nature  of  the  two  cases  to  which  1  had  been  summoned,  and 
the  place  to  which  I  had  gone :  in  effect,  stating  all  the  cir 
cumstances.  I  knew  what  Court  influence  was  and  what  the 
immunities  of  the  Nobles  were,  and  I  expected  that  the  mat- 
ter would  nev^er  be  heard  of ;  but,  I  wished  to  relieve  my  own 
mind.  I  had  kept  the  matter  a  profound  secret,  even  from 
my  wife  ;  and  this,  too,  I  resolved  to  state  in  my  letter.  I  had 
no  apprehension  whatever  of  my  real  danger  ;  but  I  was  con- 
scious that  there  might  be  danger  for  others,  if  others  were 
compromised  by  possessing  the  knowledge  that  I  possessed. 

"  I  was  much  engaged  that  day,  and  could  not  complete 
my  letter  that  night.  I  rose  long  before  my  usual  time  next 
morning  to  finish  it.  It  was  the  last  day  of  the  year.  The 
letter  was  lying  before  me  just  completed,  when  I  w^as  told 
that  a  lady  waited  who  wished  to  see  me.         ^    ^  * 

"  I  am  growing  more  and  more  unequal  to  the  task  I  have 
set  myself.  It  is  so  cold,  so  dark,  my  senses  are  so  benumbed, 
and  the  gloom  upon  me  is  so  dreadful. 

The  lady  was  young,  engaging,  and  handsome,  but  not 
marked  for  long  life.  She  was  in  great  agitation.  She  pre- 
sented herself  to  me  as  the  wife  of  the  Marquis  St.  Evre- 
monde.  I  connected  the  title  by  which  the  boy  had  addressed 
the  elder  brother,  with  the  initial  letter  embroidered  on  the 
scarf,  and  had  no  difficulty  in  arriving  at  the  conclusion  that 
I  had  seen  that  nobleman  very  lately. 

My  memory  is  still  accurate,  but  I  cannot  write  the  words 
of  our  conversation.  I  suspect  that  I  am  watched  more 
closely  than  I  was,  and  I  know  not  at  what  times  I  may  be 
watched.  She  had  in  part  suspected  and  in  part  discovered,  the 
main  facts  of  the  cruel  story,  of  her  husband's  share  in  it,  and 
my  being  resorted  to.  She  did  not  know  that  the  girl  was 
dead.  Her  hope  had  been,  she  said  in  great  distress,  to  show 
her,  in  secret,  a  woman's  sympathy.  Her  hope  had  been  to 
avert  the  wrath  of  Heaven  from  a  House  that  had  long  been 
hateful  to  the  suffering  many. 

She  had  reasons  for  believing  that  there  was  a  young 
sister  living,  and  her  greatest  desire  was,  to  help  that  sister. 
I  could  tell  her  nothing  but  that  there  was  such  a  sister ;  be- 
yond that  I  knew  nothing.  Her  inducement  to  come  to  me, 
relying  on  my  confidence,  had  been  the  hope  that  I  could  telj 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


her  the  name  aad  place  of  abode.  Whereas,  to  this  wretched 
hour  I  am  ignorant  of  both.       ^       ^  ^ 

These  scraps  of  paper  fail  me.  One  was  taken  from  me, 
with  a  warning,  yesterday.    I  must  finish  my  record  to-day. 

"  She  was  a  good,  compassionate  lady,  and  not  happy  in 
her  marriage.  How  could  she  be  !  The  brother  distrusted 
and  disliked  her,  and  his  influence  was  all  opposed  to  her  ] 
she  stood  in  dread  of  him,  and  in  dread  of  her  husband  too. 
When  I  handed  her  down  to  the  door,  there  was  a  child,  a 
pretty  boy,  from  two  to  three  years  old,  in  her  carriage. 

"  *  For  his  sake.  Doctor,'  she  said  pointing  to  him  in  tears, 
*  I  would  do  all  I  can  to  make  what  poor  amends  I  can.  He 
will  never  prosper  in  his  inheritance  otherwise.  I  have  a  pre- 
sentiment that  if  no  other  innocent  atonement  is  made  for 
this,  it  will  one  day  be  required  of  him.  What  I  have  left  to 
call  my  own — it  is  little  beyond  the  worth  of  a  few  jewels — I 
will  make  it  the  lirst  charge  of  his  life  to  bestow,  with  the 
compassion  and  lamenting  of  his  dead  mother,  on  this  in- 
jured family,  if  the  sister  can  be  discovered.' 

"  She  kissed  the  boy,  and  said,  caressing  him,  *  It  is  for 
thine  own  dear  sake.  Thou  wilt  be  faithful,  little  Charles  1 ' 
The  child  answered  her  bravely,  *  Yes  ! '  I  kissed  her  hand, 
and  she  took  him  in  her  arms,  and  went  away  caressing  him. 
I  never  saw  her  more. 

"  As  she  had  mentioned  her  husband's  name  in  the  faith 
that  I  knew  it,  I  added  no  mention  of  it  to  my  letter.  I 
sealed  my  letter,  and,  not  trusting  it  out  of  my  own  hands, 
delivered  it  myself  that  day. 

"  That  night,  the  last  night  of  the  year,  towards  nine 
o'clock,  a  man  in  a  black  dress  rang  at  my  gate,  demanded 
to  see  me,  and  softly  followed  my  servant,  Ernest  Defarge,  a 
youth,  up  stairs.  When  my  servant  came  into  the  room  where 
I  sat  with  my  wife — O  my  wife,  beloved  of  my  heart !  My 
fair  young  English  wife  ! — we  saw  the  man,  who  was  sup- 
posed to  be  at  the  gate,  standing  silent  behind  him. 

"An  urgent  case  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  he  said.  It 
would  not  detain  me,  he  had  a  coach  in  waiting. 

"  It  brought  me  here,  it  brought  me  to  my  grave.  When 
I  was  clear  of  the  house,  a  black  muffler  was  drawn  tightly 
over  my  mouth  from  behind,  and  my  arms  were  pinioned. 
The  two  brothers  crossed  the  road  from  a  dark  corner,  and 
identified  me  with  a  single  gesture.  The  Marquis  took  from 
his  pocket  the  letter  I  had  written,  showed  it  to  me,  burnt  it 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  THE  SHADOW.  311 

In  the  light  of  a  lantern  that  was  held,  and  extinguished  the 
ashes  with  his  foot.  Not  a  word  was  spoken.  I  was  brought 
here,  I  was  brought  to  my  living  grave. 

"  If  it  had  pleased  God  to  put  it  in  the  hard  heart  of 
either  of  the  brothers,  in  all  these  frightful  years,  to  grant  me 
any  tidings  of  my  dearest  wife — so  much  as  to  let  me  know 
by  a  word  whether  alive  or  dead — I  might  have  thought  that 
He  had  not  quite  abandoned  them.  But,  now  I  believe  that 
the  mark  of  the  red  cross  is  fatal  to  them,  and  that  they  have 
no  part  in  His  mercies.  And  them  and  their  descendants,  to 
the  last  of  their  race,  I,  Alexandre  Manette,  unhappy  pris- 
oner, do  this  last  night  of  the  year  1767,  in  my  unbear- 
able agony,  denounce  to  the  times  when  all  these  things 
shall  be  answered  for.  I  denoiuace  tliem  to  Heaven  and  to 
earth." 

A  terrible  sound  arose  when  the  reading  of  this  document 
was  done.  A  sound  of  craving  and  eagerness  that  had  noth- 
ing articulate  in  it  but  blood.  The  narrative  called  up  the 
most  revengeful  passions  of  the  time,  and  there  was  not  a 
head  in  the  nation  but  must  have  dropped  before  it. 

Little  need,  in  presence  of  that  tribunal  and  that  auditory, 
to  show  how  the  Defarges  had  not  made  the  paper  public, 
with  the  other  captured  Bastile  memorials  borne  in  proces- 
sion, and  had  kept  it,  biding  their  time.  Little  need  to  show 
that  this  detested  family  name  had  long  been  anathematized 
by  Saint  Antoine,  and  was  wrought  into  the  fatal  register. 
The  man  never  trod  ground  whose  virtues  and  services  would 
have  sustained  him  in  that  place  that  day,  against  such  de- 
nunciation. 

And  all  the  worse  for  the  doomed  man,  that  the  denouncer 
was  a  well-known  citizen,  his  own  attached  friend,  the  father 
of  his  wife.  One  of  the  frenzied  aspirations  of  the  populace 
w^as,  for  imitations  of  the  questionable  public  virtues  of  an- 
tiquity, and  for  sacrifices  and  self-immolations  on  the  people's 
altar.  Therefore  when  the  President  said  (else  had  his  own 
head  quivered  on  his  shoulders),  that  the  good  physician  of 
the  Republic  would  deserve  better  still  of  the  Republic  by 
rooting  out  an  obnoxious  family  of  Aristocrats,  and  would 
doubtless  feel  a  sacred  glow  and  joy  in  making  his  daughter 
a  widow  and  her  child  an  orphan,  there  was  wild  excitement, 
patriotic  fervor,  not  a  touch  of  human  sympathy. 

"  Much  influence  around  him,  has  that  Doctor  ?  "  mur 
U 


312  A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

mured  Madame  Defarge,  smiling  to  The  Vengeance.  "  Save 
him  now,  my  Doctor,  save  him  ! 

At  every  juryman's  vote,  there  was  a  roar.  Another  and 
another.    Roar  and  roar. 

Unanimously  voted.  At  heart  and  by  descent  an  Aristo- 
crat, an  enemy  of  the  Republic,  a  notorious  oppressor  of  the 
People.  Back  to  the  Conciergerie,  and  Death  within  four 
and-*^wenty  hours  ! 


CHAPTER  XI. 

DUSK. 

The  wretched  wife  of  the  innocent  man  thus  doomed  to 
die,  fell  under  the  sentence,  as  if  she  had  been  mortally 
stricken.  But,  she  uttered  no  sound  ;  and  so  strong  was  the 
voice  within  her,  representing  that  it  was  she  of  all  the  world 
who  must  uphold  him  in  his  misery  and  not  augment  it,  that 
it  quickly  raised  her,  even  from  that  shock. 

The  judges  having  to  take  part  in  a  public  demonstration 
out  of  doors,  the  tribunal  adjourned.  The  quick  noise  and 
movement  of  the  court's  emptying  itself  by  many  passages 
had  not  ceased,  when  Lucie  stood  stretching  out  her  arms 
towards  her  husband,  with  nothing  in  her  face  but  love  and 
consolation. 

If  I  might  touch  him  !  If  I  might  embrace  him  once  ! 
O,  good  citizens,  if  you  would  have  so  much  compassion  for 
us!  " 

There  was  but  a  jailer  left,  along  with  two  of  the  four 
men  who  had  taken  him  last  night,  and  Barsad.  The  people 
had  all  poured  out  to  the  show  in  the  streets.  Barsad  pro- 
posed to  the  rest,  "  Let  her  embrace  him  then  ;  it  is  but  a 
moment."  It  was  silently  acquiesced  in,  and  they  passed  her 
over  the  seats  in  the  hall  to  a  raised  place,  where  he,  by  lean- 
ing over  the  dock,  could  fold  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Farewell,  dear  darling  of  my  soul.  My  parting  blessing 
on  my  love.  We  shall  meet  again,  where  the  weary  are  at 
rest  I 

They  were  her  husband's  words,  as  he  held  hf  to  his 
bosom. 


DUSK, 


313 


"  I  can  bear  it,  dear  Charles.  I  am  supported  from  above  : 
don't  suffer  for  me.    A  parting  blessing  for  our  child.'' 

"  I  send  it  to  her  by  you.  I  kiss  her  by  you.  I  say  fare- 
well to  her  by  you." 

"My  husband.  No!  A  moment!"  He  was  tearing  him- 
self apart  from  her.  "  We  shall  not  be  separated  long.  I  feel 
that  this  will  break  my  heart  by  and  by  ;  but  I  will  do  my 
duty  while  I  can,  and  when  I  leave  her,  God  will  raise  up 
friends  for  her,  as  He  did  for  me." 

Her  father  had  followed  her,  and  would  have  fallen  on  his 
knees  to  both  of  them,  but  tha/  Darnay  put  out  a  hand  and 
seized  him,  crying  : 

"  No,  no !  What  have  you  done,  what  have  you  done, 
that  you  should  kneel  to  us !  We  know  now,  what  a  struggle 
you  made  of  old.  We  know  now,  what  you  underwent  when 
you  suspected  my  descent,  and  when  you  knew  it.  We  know 
now,  the  natural  antipathy  you  strove  against,  and  conquered, 
for  her  dear  sake.  We  thank  you  with  all  our  hearts,  and  all 
our  love  and  duty.    Heaven  be  with  you  !  " 

Her  father's  only  answer  was  to  draw  his  hands  through 
his  white  hair,  and  wring  them  with  a  shriek  of  anguish. 

"  It  could  not  be  otherwise,"  said  the  prisoner.  "  All 
things  have  worked  together  as  they  have  fallen  out.  It  was 
the  always-vain  endeavor  to  discharge  my  poor  mother's  trust 
that  first  brought  my  fatal  presence  near  you.  Good  could 
never  come  of  such  evil,  a  happier  end  was  not  in  nature  to 
so  unhappy  a  beginning.  Be  comforted,  and  forgive  me. 
Heaven  bless  you  !  " 

As  he  was  drawn  away,  his  wife  released  him,  and  stood 
looking  after  him  with  her  hands  touching  one  another  in  the 
attitude  of  prayer,  and  with  a  radiant  look  upon  her  face,  in 
which  there  was  even  a  comforting  smile.  As  he  went  out  at 
the  prisoners'  door,  she  turned,  laid  her  head  lovingly  on  her 
father's  breast,  tried  to  speak  to  him,  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

Then,  issuing  from  the  obscure  corner  from  which  he  had 
never  moved,  Sydney  Carton  came  and  took  her  up.  Only 
her  father  and  Mr.  Lorry  were  with  her.  His  arm  trembled 
as  it  raised  her,  and  supported  her  head.  Yet,  there  was  an 
air  about  him  that  was  not  all  pity — that  had  a  flush  of  pride 
in  it. 

"  Shall  I  take  her  to  a  coach  t  I  shall  never  feel  her 
weight." 

He  carried  her  lightly  to  the  door,  and  laid  her  tenderly 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CIIIES. 


down  in  a  coach.  Her  father  and  their  old  friend  got  into  it, 
and  he  took  his  seat  beside  the  driver. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  gateway  where  he  had  paused  in 
the  dark  not  many  hours  before,  to  picture  to  himself  on 
which  of  the  rough  stones  of  the  street  her  feet  had  trodden, 
he  lifted  her  again,  and  carried  her  up  the  staircase  to  their 
rooms.  There,  he  laid  her  down  on  a  couch,  where  her  child 
and  Miss  Pross  wept  over  her. 

"  Don't  recall  her  to  herself,"  he  said,  softly,  to  the  latter, 
"  she  is  better  so.  Don't  revive  her  to  consciousness,  while 
she  only  faints." 

"  Oh,  Carton,  Carton,  dear  Carton  ! "  cried  little  Lucie, 
springing  up  and  throwing  her  arms  passionately  round  him, 
in  a  burst  of  grief.  "  Now  that  you  have  come,  I  think  you 
will  do  something  to  help  mamma,  something  to  save  papa ! 
O,  look  at  her,  dear  Carton  !  Can  you,  of  all  the  people  who 
love  her,  bear  to  see  her  so  1 " 

He  bent  over  the  child,  and  laid  her  blooming  cheek 
against  his  face.  He  put  her  gently  from  him,  and  looked  at 
her  unconscious  mother. 

"  Before  I  go,"  he  said,-  and  paused — "I  may  kiss  her.'^" 

It  was  remembered  afterwards  that  when  he  h)ent  down 
and  touched  her  face  with  his  lips,  he  murmured  some  words. 
The  child,  who  was  nearest  to  him,  told  them  afterwards,  and 
told  her  grandchildren  when  she  was  a  handsome  old  lady, 
that  she  heard  .him  say,  ''A  life  you  love." 

When  he  had  gone  out  into  the  next  room,  he  turned  sud- 
denly on  Mr.  Lorry  and  her  father,  who  were  following,  and 
said  to  the  latter  : 

"  You  had  great  influence  but  yesterday.  Doctor  Manette  ; 
let  it  at  least  be  tried.  These  judges,  and  all  the  men  in 
power,  are  very  friendly  to  you,  and  very  recognizant  of  your 
services  ;  are  they  not  ?  " 

"  Nothing  connected  with  Charles  was  concealed  from  me« 
I  had  the  strongest  assurances  that  I  should  save  him  ;  and  I 
did."  He  returned  the  answer  in  great  trouble,  and  very 
slowly. 

"Try  them  again.  The  hours  between  this  and  to-morrow 
afternoon  are  few  and  short,  but  try." 

"  I  intend  to  try.    I  will  not  rest  a  moment." 

"  That's  well.  I  have  known  such  energy  as  yours  do 
great  things  before  now — though  never,"  he  added,  with  a 
smile  and  a  sigh  together,  "  such  great  things  as  this.  But 


DUSK. 


try  !  Of  little  worth  as  life  is  when  we  misuse  it,  it  is  worth 
that  effort.  It  would  cost  nothing  to  lay  down  if  it  were 
not.'' 

"  I  will  go,"  said  Doctor  Manette,  "  to  the  Prosecutor  and 
the  President  straight,  and  I  will  go  to  others  whom  it  is  better 

not  to  name.    I  will  write  too,  and  But  stay!    There  ia 

a  celebration  in  the  streets,  and  no  one  will  be  accessible  until 
dark." 

"  That's  true.  Well !  It  is  a  forlorn  hope  at  the  best 
and  not  much  the  forlorner  for  being  delayed  till  dark.  I 
should  like  to  know  how  you  speed  ;  though,  mind  !  I  expect 
nothing  !  When  are  you  likely  to  have  seen  these  dread 
powers,  Doctor  Manette?  " 

"  Immediately  after  dark,  I  should  hope.  Within  an  hour 
or  two  from  this." 

"  It  will  be  dark  soon  after  four.  Let  us  stretch  the  hour 
or  two.  If  I  go  to  Mr.  Lorry's  at  nine,  shall  I  hear  what  you 
have  done,  either  from  our  friend  or  from  yourself  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  May  you  prosper  !  " 

Mr.  Lorry  followed  Sydney  to  the  outer  door,  and,  touch- 
ing him  on  the  shoulder  as  he  was  going  away,  caused  him  to 
turn. 

"  I  have  no  hope,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  in  a  low  and  sorrowful 
whisper. 

"  Nor  have  I." 

"  If  any  one  of  these  men,  or  all  of  these  men,  were  dis- 
posed to  spare  him — which  is  a  large  supposition  ;  for  what  is 
his  life,  or  any  man's  to  them  ! — I  doubt  if  they  durst  spare 
him  after  the  demonstration  in  the  court." 

"  And  so  do  I.    I  heard  the  fall  of  the  axe  in  that  sound." 

Mr.  Lorry  leaned  his  arm  upon  the  door-post,  and  bowed 
his  face  upon  it. 

"  Don't  despond,"  said  Carton,  very  gently  ;  "  don't  grieve, 
I  encouraged  Doctor  Manette  in  this  idea,  because  I  felt  that 
it  might  one  day  be  consolatory  to  her.  Otherwise,  she  might 
think  Miis  life  was  .wantonly  thrown  away  or  wasted,'  and  that 
might  trouble  her." 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  returned  Mr.  Lorry,  dry^ing  his  eyes,  "you 
are  right.    But  he  will  perish  ;  there  is  no  real  hope." 

"Yes.  He  will  perish:  there  is  no  real  hope,"  echoed 
Carton.    And  walked  with  a  settled  step,  down  stairs. 


3i6 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  C J  TIES. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

DARKNESS. 

Sydney  Carton  paused  in  the  street,  not  quite  decided 
where  to  go.  "  At  Tellson's  banking-house  at  nine,"  he  said, 
with  a  musing  face.  "  Shall  I  do  well,  in  the  mean  time,  to 
show  myself  ?  I  think  so.  It  is  best  that  these  ^oeople  should 
know  there  is  such  a  man  as  I  here  ;  it  is  a  sound  precaution, 
and  may  be  a  necessary  preparation.  But  care,  care,  care  1 
Let  me  think  it  out !  " 

Checking  his  steps  which  had  begun  to  tend  towards  an 
object,  he  took  a  turn  or  two  in  the  already  darkening  street, 
and  traced  the  thought  in  his  mind  to  its  possible  conse- 
quences. His  first  impression  was  confirmed.  "  It  is  best,'' 
he  said,  finally  resolved,  "  that  these  people  should  know 
there  is  such  a  man  as  I  here."  And  he  turned  his  face  to- 
wards Saint  Antoine. 

Defarge  had  described  himself,  that  day,  as  the  keeper  of 
a  wine-shop  in  the  Saint  Antoine  suburb.  It  was  not  difficult 
for  one  who  knew  the  city  well,  to  find  his  house  without  ask- 
ing any  questions.  Having  ascertained  its  situation.  Carton 
came  out  of  those  closer  streets  again,  and  dined  at  a  place 
of  refreshment  and  fell  sound  asleep  after  dinner.  For  the 
first  time  in  many  years,  he  had  no  strong  drink.  Since  last 
night  he  had  taken  nothing  but  a  little  light  thin  wine,  and 
last  night  he  had  dropped  the  brandy  slowly  down  on  Mr. 
Lorry's  hearth  like  a  man  who  had  done  with  it. 

It  was  as  late  as  seven  o'clock  when  he  awoke  refreshed, 
and  went  out  into  the  streets  again.  As  he  passed  along 
towards  Saint  Antoine,  he  stopped  at  a  shop-window  where 
there  was  a  mirror,  and  slightly  altered  the  disordered  ar- 
rangement of  his  loose  cravat,  and  his  coat-collar,  and  his  wild 
hair.    This  done,  he  went  on  direct  to  Defarge's,  and  went  in. 

There  happened  to  be  no  customer  in  the  shop  but  Jacques 
Three,  of  the  restless  fingers  and  the  croaking  voice.  This 
man,  whom  he  had  seen  upon  the  Jur}^  stood  drinking  at  the 
little  counter,  in  conversation  with  the  Defarges,  man  and  wife. 
The  Vengeance  assisted  in  the  conversation,  like  a  regular 
member  of  the  establishment. 

As  Carton  walked  in,  took  his  seat  and  asked  (in  very  in- 


DARKNESS, 


different  French)  for  a  small  measure  of  wine,  Madame  De- 
farge  cast  a  careless  glance  at  him,  and  then  a  keener,  and 
then  a  keener,  and  then  advanced  to  him  herself,  and  asked 
him  what  it  was  he  had  ordered. 

He  repeated  what  he  had  already  said. 

"  English  ?  "  asked  Madame  Defarge,  inquisitively  raising 
her  dark  eyebrows. 

After  looking  at  her,  as  if  the  sound  of  even  a  single 
French  word  were  slow  to  express  itself  to  him,  he  answered, 
in  his  former  strong  foreign  accent.  Yes,  madame,  yes.  I 
am  English  ! 

Madame  Defarge  returned  to  her  counter  to  get  the  wine, 
and,  as  he  took  up  a  Jacobin  journal  and  feigned  to  pore 
over  it  puzzling  out  its  meaning,  he  heard  her  say,  I  swear 
to  you,  like  Evremonde  ! 

Defarge  brought  him  the  wine,  and  gave  him  Good-Even- 
ing. 

"  How  ? 

"  Good-evening." 

"  Oh  !  Good-evening,  citizen,'*  filling  his  glass.  "  Ah  ! 
and  good  wine.    I  drink  to  the  Republic." 

Defarge  went  back  to  the  counter,  and  said,  Certainly,  a 
little  like."  Madame  sternly  retorted,  "  I  tell  you  a  good 
deal  like."  Jacques  Three  pacifically  remarked,  "  He  is  so 
much  in  your  mind,  see  you,  madame."  The  amiable  Ven- 
geance added,  with  a  laugh,  "Yes,  my  faith  !  And  you  are 
looking  forward  with  so  much  pleasure"  to  seeing  him  once 
more  to-morrow  ! " 

Carton  followed  the  lines  and  words  of  his  paper,  with  a 
slow  forefinger,  and  with  a  studious  and  absorbed  face.  They 
were  all  leaning  their  arms  on  the  counter  close  together, 
speaking  low.  After  a  silence  of  a  few  moments,  during 
which  they  all  looked  towards  him  without  disturbing  his  out- 
ward attention  from  the  Jacobin  editor,  they  resumed  their 
conversation. 

"  It  is  true  what  madame  says,"  observed  Jacques  Three. 
"  Why  stop  ?    There  is  great  force  in  that.    Why  stop  }  " 

"  Well,  well,"  reasoned  Defarge,  "  but  one  must  stop 
somewhere.    After  all,  the  question  is  still  where  ? " 

"  At  extermination,"  said  madame. 

"  Magnificent !  "  croaked  Jacques  Three.  The  Vengeance, 
also,  highly  approved. 

"  Extermination  is  good  doctrine,  my  wife,"  said  Defarge^ 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


rather  troubled ;  "  in  general,  I  say  nothing  against  it.  But 
ihis  Doctor  has  suffered  much ;  you  have  seen  him  to-day ; 
you  have  observed  his  face  when  the  paper  was  read." 

"  I  have  observed  his  face  !  "  repeated  madame,  contempt- 
uously and  angrily.  "  Yes.  I  have  observed  his  face.  I 
have  observed  his  face  to  be  not  the  face  of  a  true  friend  od 
the  Republic.    Let  him  take  care  of  his  face  !  " 

And  you  have  observed,  my  wife,"  said  Defarge,  i,i  a 
deprecatory  manner,  "the  anguish  of  his  daughter,  whi.li 
must  be  a  dreadful  anguish  to  him  j  *' 

*^  I  have  observed  his  daughter,"  repeated  madame  ;  "yes, 
I  have  observed  his  daughter,  more  times  than  one.  1  have 
observed  her  to-day,  and  I  have  observed  he;  other  days.  1 
have  observed  her  in  the  court,  and  I  have  observed  her  in 

the  street  by  the  prison.    Let  me  but  lift  my  finger  !  " 

She  seems  to  raise  it  (the  listener's  eyes  were  always  on  his 
paper),  and  to  let  it  fall  with  a  rattle  on  the  ledge  before  her, 
as  if  the  axe  had  dropped. 

"  The  citizeness  is  superb  !  "  croaked  the  Juryman. 

"  She  is  an  Angel !  "  said  The  Vengeance,  and  embraced 
her. 

"  As  to  thee,"  pursued  madame,  implacably,  addressing 
her  husband,  "  if  it  depended  on  thee — which,  happily,  it  does 
not — thou  wouldst  rescue  this  man  even  now." 

"  No  !  "  protested  Defarge.  "  Not  if  to  lift  this  glass 
would  do  it !  But  I  would  leave  the  matter  there.  I  say, 
stop  there." 

"  See  you  then,  Jacques,"  said  Madame  Defarge,  wrath- 
fully;  "and  see  you,  too,  my  little  Vengeance  ;  see  you  both! 
Listen  !  For  other  crimes  as  tyrants  and  oppressors,  I  have 
this  race  a  long  time  on  my  register,  doomed  to  destruction 
and  extermination.    Ask  my  husband,  is  that  so." 

"  It  is  so,"  assented  Defarge,  without  being  asked. 

"  In  the  beginning  of  the  great  days,  when  the  Bastile 
falls,  he  finds  this  paper  of  to-day,  and  he  brings  it  home, 
^and  in  the  middle  of  the  night  when  this  place  is  clear  and 
ishut,  we  read  it,  here  on  this  spot,  by  the,  light  of  this  lamp. 
Ask  him,  is  that  so." 

"  It  is  so,"  assented  Defarge. 

"That  night,  I  tell  him,  when  the  paper  is  read  through, 
and  the  lamp  is  burnt  out,  and  the  day  is  gleaming  in  above 
those  shutters  and  between  those  iron  bars,  that  I  have  now 
ft  secret  to  cornmunicate.    Ask  him,  is  that  so." 


3^9 


"  It  is  so,"  assented  Defarge  again. 

"  I  communicate  to  him  that  secret,  I  smite  this  bosom 
with  these  two  hands  as  I  smite  it  now,  and  I  tell  him,  *  De- 
farge, I  was  brought  up  among  the  fishermen  of  the  sea-shore, 
and  that  peasant  family  so  injured  by  the  two  Evremonde 
brothers,  as  that  Bastile  paper  describes,  is  my  family.  De* 
farge,  that  sister  of  the  mortally  wounded  boy  upon  the 
ground  was  my  sister,  that  husband  was  my  sister's  husband, 
that  unborn  child  was  their  child,  that  brother  was  my  brother, 
that  father  was  my  father,  those  dead  are  my  dead,  and  that 
sunnnons  to  answer  for  those  things  descends  to  me ! '  Ask 
him,  is  that  so." 

"  It  is  so,"  assented  Defarge  once  more. 

*'Then  tell  Wind  and  Fire  where  to  stop,"  returned 
madame  ;  "  but  don't  tell  me." 

Both  her  hearers  derived  a  horrible  enjoyment  from  the 
deadly  nature  of  her  wrath — the  listener  could  feel  how  white 
she  was,  without  seeing  her — and  both  highly  commended  it. 
Defarge,  a  weak  minority,  interposed  a  few  words  for  the 
memory  of  the  compassionate  wife  of  the  Marquis ;  but  only 
elicited  from  his  own  wife  a  repetition  of  her  last  reply.  "  Tell 
the  Wind  and  the  Fire  where  to  stop  ;  not  me 

Customers  entered,  and  the  group  was  broken  up.  The 
English  customer  paid  for  what  he  had  had,  perplexedly 
counted  his  change,  and  asked,  as  a  stranger,  to  be  directed 
towards  the  National  Palace.  Madame  Defarge  took  him  to 
the  door,  and  put  her  arm  on  his,  in  pointing  out  the  road. 
The  English  customer  was  not  without  his  reflections  then, 
that  it  might  be  a  good  deed  to  seize  that  arm,  lift  it,  and 
strike  under  it  sharp  and  deep. 

But,  he  went  his  way,  and  was  soon  swallowed  up  in  the 
shadow  of  the  prison  wall.  At  the  appointed  hour,  he  emerged 
from  it  to  present  himself  in  Mr.  Lorry's  room  again,  where 
he  found  the  old  gentleman  walking  to  and  fro  in  restless 
aruiety.  He  said  he  had  been  with  Lucie  until  just  now,  and 
had  only  left  her  for  a  few  minutes,  to  come  and  keep  his  ap- 
pointment. Her  father  had  not  been  seen,  since  he  quitted 
the  banking-house  towards  four  o'clock.  She  had  some  faint 
hopes  that  his  mediation  might  save  Charles,  but  they  were 
very  slight.  He  had  been  more  than  five  hours  gone:  where 
could  he  be  ? 

Mr.  Lorry  waited  until  ten ;  but,  Doctor  Manette  not  re- 
turning, and  he  being  unwilling  to  leave  I^ucie  any  longer,  it 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


was  arranged  that  he  should  go  back  to  her,  and  come  to  the 
banking-house  again  at  midnight.  In  the  meanwhile.  Carton 
would  wait  alone  by  the  fire  for  the  Doctor. 

He  waited  and  waited,  and  the  clock  struck  twelve  ;  but 
Doctor  Manette  did  not  come  back.  Mr.  Lorry  returned,  and 
found  no  tidings  of  him,  and  brought  none.  Where  could  he 
he} 

They  were  discussing  this  question,  and  were  almost  build^ 
ing  up  some  weak  structure  of  hope  on  his  prolonged  absence, 
when  they  heard  him  on  the  stairs.  The  instant  he  entered 
the  room,  it  was  plain  that  all  was  lost.. 

Whether  he  had  really  been  to  any  one,  or  whether  he  had 
been  all  that  time  traversing  the  streets,  was  never  known. 
As  he  stood  staring  at  them,  they  asked  him  no  question,  for 
his  face  told  them  everything. 

"  I  cannot  find  it,''  said  he,  ^'  and  I  must  have  it.  Where 
is  it?" 

His  head  and  throat  were  bare,  and,  as  he  spoke  with  a 
helpless  look  straying  all  around,  he  took  his  coat  off,  and  let 
it  drop  on  the  floor. 

"  Where  is  my  bench  ?  I  have  been  looking  everywhere 
for  my  bench,  and  I  can't  find  it.  What  have  they  done  with 
my  work  ?    Time  presses  :  I  must  finish  those  shoes." 

They  looked  at  one  another,  and  their  hearts  died  within 
them. 

Come,  come  !  "  said  he,  in  a  whimpering  miserable  way  ; 
"  let  me  get  to  work.    Give  me  my  work." 

Receiving  no  answer,  he  tore  his  hair,  and  beat  his  feet 
upon  the  ground,  like  a  distracted  child. 

"  Don't  torture  a  poor  forlorn  wretch,"  he  implored  them, 
with  a  dreadful  cry ;  but  give  me  my  work  !  What  is  to  be- 
come of  us,  if  those  shoes  are  not  done  to-night  ?  " 

Lost,  utterly  l^st ! 

It  was  so  clearly  beyond  hope  to  reason  with  him,  or  try 
to  restore  him, — that — as  if  by  agreement — they  each  put  a 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  soothed  him  to  sit  down  before 
the  fire,  with  a  promise  that  he  should  have  his  work  presently. 
He  sank  into  the  chair,  and  brooded  over  the  embers,  and 
shed  tears.  As  if  all  that  had  happened  since  the  garret  time 
were  a  momentary  fancy,  or  a  dream,  Mr.  Lorry  saw  him 
shrink  into  the  exact  figure  that  Defarge  had  had  in  keeping. 

Affected,  and  impressed  with  terror  as  they  both  were,  by 
this  spectacle  of  ruin,  it  was  not  a  time  to  yield  to  such  emcK 


DARKNESS. 


tions.  His  lonely  daughter,  bereft  of  her  final  hope  and  reli- 
ance, appealed  to  them  both  too  strongly.  Again,  as  if  by 
agreement,  they  looked  at  one  another  with  one  meaning  in 
their  faces.    Carton  was  the  first  to  speak  • 

"  The  last  chance  is  gone  ;  it  was  not  much.  ;  he  had 

better  be  taken  to  her.  But,  before  you  go,  will  you,  for  a 
moment,  steadily  attend  to  me  ?  Don't  ask  me  why  I  make 
the  stipulations  I  am  going  to  make,  and  exact  the  promise  I 
am  going  to  exact ;  I  have  a  reason — a  good  one." 

I  do  not  doubt  it,"  answered  Mr.  Lorry.    "  Say  on." 

The  figure  in  the  chair  between  them,  was  all  the  time 
monotonously  rocking  itself  to  and  fro,  and  moaning.  They 
spoke  in  such  a  tone  as  they  would  have  used  if  they  had  been 
watching  by  a  sick-bed  in  the  night. 

Carton  stooped  to  pick  up  the  coat,  which  lay  almost 
entangling  his  feet.  x\s  he  did  so,  a  small  case  in  which  the 
Doctor  was  accustomed  to  carry  the  list  of  his  day's  duties, 
fell  lightly  on  the  floor.  Carton  took  it  up,  and  there  was  a 
folded  paper  in  it.  We  should  look  at  this  !  "  he  said.  Mr. 
Lorry  nodded  his  consent.  He  opened  it,  and  exclaimed, 
"  Thank  God  !  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Lorry,  eagerly. 

"  A  moment !    Let  me  speak  of  it  in  its  place.    P'irst,"  he 
put  his  hand  in  his  coat,  and  took  another  paper  from  it, 
that  is  the  certificate  which  enables  me  to  pass  out  of  this 
city.    Look  at  it.    You  see — Sydney  Carton,  an  English- 
man ?  " 

Mr.  Lorr}'-  held  it- open  in  his  hand,  gazing  in  his  earnest 
face. 

Keep  it  for  me  until  to-morrow.  I  shall  see  him  to- 
morrow, you  remember,  and  I  had  better  not  take  it  into  the 
prison." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I  prefer  not  to  do  so.  Now,  take  this 
paper  that  Doctor  Manette  has  carried  about  him.  It  is  a 
similar  certificate,  enabling  him  and  his  daughter  and  her 
child,  at  any  time,  to  pass  the  barrier  and  the  frontier  .J*  You 
see  1 " 

"  Yes ! " 

"  Perhaps  he  obtained  it  as  his  last  and  utmost  precaution 
against  evil,  yesterday.  When-is  it  dated  But  no  matter; 
don't  stay  to  look ;  put  it  up  carefully  with  mine  and  your 


322 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


own.  Now,  observe  !  I  never  doubted  until  within  this  houT 
or  two,  that  he  had,  or  could  have  such  a  paper.  It  is  good, 
until  recalled.  But  it  may  be  soon  recalled,  and,  I  have  reason 
to  think,  will  be." 

"  They  are  not  in  danger  ?  " 

"  They  are  in  great  danger.  They  are  in  danger  of 
denunciation  by  Madame  Defarge.  I  know  it  from  her  own 
lips.  I  have  overheard  words  of  that  woman's  to-night,  which 
have  presented  their  danger  to  me  in  strong  colors.  I  have 
lost  no  time,  and  since  then,  I  have  seen  the  spy.  He  con^. 
firms  me.  He  knows  that  a  wood-sawyer,  living  by  the 
prison-wall,  is  under  the  control  of  the  Defarges,  and  has  been 
rehearsed  by  Madame  Defarge  as  to  his  having  seen  Her  " — . 
he  never  mentioned  Lucie's  name — "  making  signs  and  signals 
to  prisoners.  It  is  easy  to  foresee  that  the  pretence  will  be  the 
common  one,  a  prison  plot,  and  that  it  will  involve  her  life-^ 
and  perhaps  her  child's — and  perhaps  her  father's — for  botlr 
have  been  seen  with  her  at  that  place.  Don't  look  so  hor 
rified.    You  will  save  them  all." 

"  Heaven  grant  I  may.  Carton  !    But  how  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  how.  It  will  depend  on  you,  and 
it  could  depend  on  no  better  man.  This  new  denunciation 
will  certainly  not  take  place  until  after  to-morrow;  probably 
not  until  two  or  three  days  afterwards  ;  more  probably  a 
week  afterwards.  You  know  it  is  a  capital  crime,  to  mourn 
for,  or  sympathize  with,  a  victim  of  the  Guillotine.  She  and 
her  father  would  unquestionably  be  guilty  of  this  crime,  and 
this  woman  (the  inveteracy  of  whose  pursuit  cannot  be  de^ 
scribed)  would  wait  to  add  that  strength  to  her  case,  and  make 
herself  doubly  sure.    You  follow  me  ?  " 

^'  So  attentively,  and  with  so  much  confidence  in  what  you 
say,  that  for  the  moment  I  lose  sight,"  touching  the  back  of 
the  Doctor's  chair,    even  of  this  distress." 

"  You  have  mone}^  and  can  buy  the  means  of  travelling 
to  the  sea-coast  as  quickly  as  the  journey  can  be  made.  Your 
preparations  have  been  completed  for  some  days,  to  return  to 
England.  Early  to-morrow  have  your  horses  ready,  so  that 
they  may  be  in  starting  trim  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon." 

"  It  shall  be  done  ! " 

His  manner  was  so  fervent  and  inspiring,  that  Mr.  Lorry 
caught  the  flame,  and  was  as  quick  as  youth. 

"  You  are  a  noble  heart.  Did  I  say  we  could  depend 
upon  no  better  man  ?    Tell  her,  to-night,  what  you  know  of 


DARKNESS. 


323 


her  danger  as  involving  her  child  and  her  father.  Dwell  upon 
that,  for  she  would  lay  her  own  fair  head  beside  her  husband's 
cheerfully."  He  faltered  for  an  instant ;  then  went  on  as  be- 
fore. For  the  sake  of  her  child  and  her  father,  press  upon 
her  the  necessity  of  leaving  Paris,  with  them  and  you,  at  that 
hour.  Tell  her  that  it  was  her  husband's  last  arrangement. 
Tell  her  that  more  depends  upon  it  than  she  dare  believe,  or 
hope.  You  think  that  her  father,  even  in  this  sad  state,  will 
submit  himself  to  her ;  do  you  not  1  " 
"I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  I  thought  so.  Quietly  and  steadily  have  all  these  ar- 
rangements made  in  the  court-yard  here,  even  to  the  taking 
of  your  own  seat  in  the  carriage.  The  moment  1  come  to  you, 
take  me  in,  and  drive  away." 

"  I  understand  that  I  wait  for  you  under  all  circum- 
stances ?" 

"  You  have  my  certificate  in  your  hand  with  the  rest,  you 
know,  and  will  reserve  my  place.  Wait  for  nothing  but  to 
have  my  place  occupied,  and  then  for  England  !  " 

"  Why,  then,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  grasping  his  eager  but  so 
firm  and  steady  hand,  it  does  not  all  depend  on  one  old 
man,  but  I  shall  have  a  young  and  ardent  man  at  my  side." 

By  the  help  of  Heaven  you  shall  !  Promise  me  solemnly 
that  nothing  will  influence  you  to  alter  the  course  on  which 
we  now  stand  pledged  to  one  another." 

"  Nothing,  Carton." 

"  Remember  these  words  to-morrow  :  change  the  course, 
or  delay  in  it — for  any  reason — and  no  life  can  possibly  be 
saved,  and  many  lives  must  inevitably  be  sacrificed." 

"  I  will  remember  them.  I  hope  to  do  my  part  faith- 
fully." 

And  I  hope  to  do  mine.  Now,  good-by  !  " 
Though  he  said  it  with  a  grave  smile  of  earnestness,  and 
though  he  even  put  the  old  man's  hand  to  his  lips,  he  did  not 
part  from  him  then.  He  helped  him  so  far  to  arouse  the 
roc ; ling  figure  before  the  dying  embers,  as  to  get  a  cloak  and 
Iiat  put  upon  it,  and  to  tempt  it  forth  to  find  v/here  the  bench 
and  work  were  hidden  that  it  still  moaningly  besought  to  have. 
Pie  walked  on  the  other  side  of  it  and  protected  it  to  the 
court-yard  of  the  house  where  the  afflicted  heart — so  happy 
in  the  memorable  time  when  he  had  revealed  his  own  desolate 
heart  to  it — outwatched  the  awful  night.  He  entered  the 
court-yard  and  remained  there  for  a  few  moments  alone^ 


324 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


looking  up  at  the  light  in  the  window  of  her  room.  Before 
he  went  away,  he  breathed  a  blessing  towards  it,  and  a  Fare* 
well. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

FIFTY-TWO. 

In  the  black  prison  of  the  Conciergerie,  the  doomed  of  the 
day  awaited  their  fate.  They  were  in  number  as  the  weeks  of 
the  year.  Fifty-two  vv^ere  to  roll  that  afternoon  on  the  life- 
tide  of  the  city  to  the  boundless  everlasting  sea.  Before  their 
cells  were  quit  of  them,  new  occupants  were  appointed  ;  be- 
fore their  blood  ran  into  the  blood  spilled  yesterday,  the 
blood  that  was  to  mingle  with  theirs  to-morrow  was  already 
set  apart. 

Two  score  and  twelve  w^ere  told  off.  From  the  farmer- 
general  of  seventy,  whose  riches  could  not  buy  his  life,  to  the 
seamstress  of  twenty,  whose  poverty  and  obscurity  could  not 
save  her.  Physical  diseases,  engendered  in  the  vices  and 
neglects  of  men,  will  seize  on  victims  of  all  degrees  ;  and  the 
frightful  moral  disorder,  born  of  unspeakable  suffering,  in- 
tolerable oppression,  and  heartless  indifference,  smote  equally 
without  distinction. 

Charles  Darnay,  alone  in  a  cell,  had" sustained  himself 
with  no  flattering  delusion  since  he  came  to  it  from  the 
Tribunal.  In  every  line  of  the  narrative  he  had  heard,  he 
had  heard  his  condemnation.  He  had  fully  comprehended 
that  no  personal  influence  could  possibly  save  him,  that  he 
was  virtually  sentenced  by  the  millions,  and  that  units  could 
avail  him  nothing. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  not  easy,  with  the  face  of  his  beloved 
wife  fresh  before  him,  to  compose  his  mind  to  what  it  must 
bear.  His  hold  on  life  was  strong,  and  it  was  very,  very  hard, 
to  loosen  ;  by  gradual  efforts  and  degrees  unclosed  a  little 
here,  it  clenched  the  tighter  there  ;  and  when  he  brought  his 
strength  to  bear  on  that  hand  and  it  yielded,  this  was  closed 
again.  There  was  a  hurry,  too,  in  all  his  thoughts,  a  turbulent 
and  heated  working  of  his  heart,  that  contended  against  res- 
ignation.   If,  for  a  moment,  he  did  feel  resigned,  then  hii 


FIFTY-TWO. 


wife  and  child  who  had  to  live  after  him,  seemed  to  protest 
and  to  make  it  a  selfish  thing. 

But,  all  this  was  at  first.  Before  long,  the  consideration 
that  there  was  no  disgrace  in  the  fate  he  must  meet,  and  that 
numbers  v/ent  the  same  road  wrongfully,  and  trod  it  firmly 
every  day,  sprang  up  to  stimulate  him.  Next  followed  the 
thought  that  much  of  the  future  peace  of  mind  enjoyable  by 
the  clear  ones,  depended  on  his  quiet  fortitude.  So,  by  de- 
grees he  calmed  into  the  better  state,  when  he  could  raise  his 
thoughts  much  higher,  and  draw  comfort  down. 

Before  it  had  set  in  dark  on  the  night  of  his  condemna- 
tion, he  had  travelled  thus  far  on  his  last  way.  Being  allowed 
to  purchase  the  means  of  writing,  and  a  light,  he  sat  dow^n 
to  write  until  such  time  as  the  prison  lamps  should  be  ex- 
tinguished. 

He  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Lucie,  showing  her  that  he  had 
known  nothing  of  her  father's  imprisonment,  until  he  had 
heard  of  it  from  herself,  and  that  he  had  been  as  ignorant  as 
she  of  his  father's  and  uncle's  responsibility  for  that  misery, 
until  the  paper  had  been  read.  He  had  already  explained  to 
her  that  his  concealment  from  herself  of  the  name  he  had  re- 
linquished, was  the  one  condition — fully  intelligible  now — • 
that  her  father  had  attached  to  their  betrothal,  and  was  the 
one  promise  he  had  still  exacted  on  the  morning  of  their  mar- 
riage. He  entreated  her,  for  her  father's  sake,  never  to  seek 
to  know  whether  her  father  had  become  oblivious  of  the 
existence  of  the  paper,  or  had  had  it  recalled  to  him  (for  the 
moment,  or  for  good),  by  the  story  of  the  Towner,  on  that  old 
Sunday  under  the  dear  old  plane-tree  in  the  garden.  If  he 
had  preserved  any  definite  remembrance  of  it,  there  could  be 
no  doubt  that  he  had  supposed  it  destroyed  with  the  Bastile, 
when  he  had  found  no  mention  of  it  among  the  relics  of 
prisoners  which  the  populace  had  discovered  there,  and  which 
had  been  described  to  all  the  w^orld.  He  besought  her — 
though  he  added  that  he  knew  it  was  needless — to  console 
her  father,  by  impressing  him  through  every  tender  means  she 
could  think  of,  with  the  truth  that  he  had  done  nothing  for 
which  he  could  justly  reproach  himself,  but  had  uniformly  for 
gotten  himself  for  their  joint  sakes.  Next  to  her  preservation 
of  his  own  last  grateful  love  and  blessing,  and  her  overcoming 
ot  her  sorrow,  to  devote  herself  to  their  dear  child,  he  adjurec} 
her,  as  they  would  meet  in  Heaven,  to  comfort  her  father. 

To  her  father  himself,  he  wrote  in  the  same  strain  j  but^ 


326 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


he  told  her  father  that  he  expressly  confided  his  wife  and 
child  to  his  care.  And  he  told  him  this,  very  strongly,  with 
the  hope  of  rousing  him  from  any  despondency  or  dangerous 
retrospect  towards  which  he  foresaw  he  might  be  tending. 

To  Mr.  Lorry,  he  commended  them  all,  and  explained  his 
worldly  affairs.  That  done,  with  many  added  sentences  of 
grateful  friendship  and  warm  attachment,  all  was  done.  He 
never  thought  of  Carton.  His  mind  was  so  full  of  the  others 
that  he  never  once  thought  of  him. 

He  had  time  to  finish  these  letters  before  the  lights  were 
put  out.  When  he  lay  down  on  his  straw  bed  he  thought  he 
had  done  with  this  world. 

But,  it  beckoned  him  back  in  his  sleep,  and  showed  itself 
in  shining  forms.  Free  and  happy,  back  in  the  old  house  in 
Soho  (though  it  had  nothing  in  it  like  the  real  house),  unac- 
countably released  and  light  of  heart,  he  was  with  Lucie 
again,  and  she  told  him  it  was  all  a  dream,  and  he  had  never 
gone  away.  A  pause  of  forgetfulness,  and  then  he  had  even 
suffered,  and  had  come  back  to  her,  dead  and  at  peace,  and 
yet  there  was  no  difference  in  him.  Another  pause  of  obliv- 
ion, and  he  awoke  in  the  sombre  morning,  unconscious  where 
he  was  or  what  had  happened,  until  it  flashed  upon  his  mind, 
"  this  is  the  day  of  my  death  ! 

Thus,  had  he  come  through  the  hours,  to  the  day  when 
the  fifty-two  heads  were  to  fall.  And  now,  while  he  was  com- 
posed, and  hoped  that  he  could  meet  the  end  with  quiet 
heroism,  a  new  action  began  in  his  waking  thoughts,  which 
was  very  difficult  to  master. 

He  had  never  seen  the  instrument  that  was  to  terminate 
his  life.  How  high  it  was  from  the  ground,  how  many  steps 
it  had,  where  he  would  be  stood,  how  he  would  be  touched, 
whether  the  touching  hands  would  be  dyed  red,  which  way  his 
face  would  be  turned,  whether  he  would  be  the  first,  or  might 
be  the  last :  these  and  many  similar  questions,  in  no  wise 
directed  by  his  will,  obtruded  themselves  over  and  over  again, 
countless  times.  Neither  were  they  connected  with  fear  :  he 
was  conscious  of  no  fear.  Rather,  they  originated  in  a 
strange  besetting  desire  to  know  what  to  do  when  the  time 
came ;  a  desire  gigantically  disproportionate  to  the  few  swift 
moments  to  which  it  referred  ;  a  wondering  that  was  more 
like  the  wondering  of  some  other  spirit  within  his,  than  his 
own. 

The  hours  went  on  as  he  walked  to  and  fro,  and  the 


FIFTY- TWO. 


327 


clocks  struck  the  numbers  he  would  never  hear  again.  Nine 
gone  for  ever,  ten  gone  for  ever,  eleven  gone  for  ever,  twelve 
coming  on  to  pass  away.  After  a  hard  contest  with  that  ec- 
centric action  of  thought  which  had  last  perplexed  him,  he 
had  got  the  better  of  it.  He  walked  up  and  down  softly  re- 
peating their  names  to  himself.  The  worst  of  the  strife  was 
over,  He  could  walk  up  and  down,  free  from  distracting 
fancies,  praying  for  himself  and  for  them. 
Tw^elve  gone  for  ever. 

He  had  been  apprised  that  the  final  hour  was  three,  and  he 
knew  he  would  be  summoned  sometime  earlier,  inasmuch  as 
the  tumbrils  jolted  heavily  and  slowly  through  the  streets. 
Therefore,  he  resolved  to  keep  two  before  his  mind,  as  the 
hour,  and  so  to  strengthen  himself  in  the  interval  that  he 
might  be  able,  after  that  time,  to  strengthen  others. 

Walking  regularly  to  and  fro  with  his  arms  folded  on  his 
breast,  a  very  different  man  from  the  prisoner,  who  had 
walked  to  and  fro  at  La  Force,  he  heard  one  struck  away 
from  him,  without  surprise.  The  hour  had  measured  like 
most  other  hours.  Devoutly  thankful  to  Heaven  for  his 
recovered  self-possession,  he  thought There  is  but  another 
now,''  and  turned  to  walk  again. 

Footsteps  in  the  stone  passage  outside  the  door.  He 
stopped. 

The  key  was  put  in  the  lock,  and  turned.  Before  the 
door  was  opened,  or  as  it  opened,  a  man  said  in  a  low  voice, 
in  English  :  "  He  has  never  seen  me  here  j  I  have  kept  out 
of  his  way.    Go  you  in  alone ;  I  Vv^ait  near.    Lose  no  time  !  " 

The  door  w^as  quickly  opened  and  closed,  and  there  stood 
before  him  face  to  face,  quiet,  intent  upon  him,  with  the  light 
of  a  smile  on  his  features,  and  a  cautionary  finger  on  his  lip, 
Sydney  Carton. 

There  was  something  so  bright  and  remarkable  in  his 
look,  that,  for  the  first  moment,  the  prisoner  misdoubted  him 
to  be  an  apparition  of  his  own  imagining.  But,  he  spoke, 
and  it  was  his  voice ;  he  took  the  prisoner's  hand,  and  it  was 
his  real  grasp. 

"  Of  all  the  people  upon  earth,  you  least  expected  to  see 
me? "  he  said. 

"  I  could  not  believe  it  to  be  you.  I  can  scarcely  believe 
it  now.  You  are  not  " — the  apprehension  came  suddenly  into 
his  mind — a  prisoner  ? 

"  No.    I  am  accidentally  possessed  of  a  power  over  one 


328  A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

of  the  keepers  here,  and  in  virtue  of  it  I  stand  before  you.  I 
come  from  her — your  wife,  dear  Darnay." 

The  prisoner  wrung  his  hand. 

"  I  bring  you  a  request  from  her." 

"What  is  it? 

"  A  most  earnest,  pressing,  and  emphatic  entreaty,  ad- 
dressed to  you  in  the  most  patlietic  tones  of  the  voice  so  deal 
to  3/0U,  that  you  well  remember." 

The  piisoiier  turned  his  face  partly  aside. 
You  have  no  time  to  ask  me  why  I  bring  it,  or  what  it 
means  ;  I  have  no  time  to  tell  you.    You  must  comply  with  it 
— take  off  those  boots  you  wear,  and  draw  on  these  of  mine." 

There  was  a  chair  against  the  wall  of  the  cell,  behind  the 
prisoner.  Carton,  pressing  forward,  had  already,  with  the 
speed  of  lightning,  got  him  down  into  it,  and  stood  over  him, 
barefoot. 

"  Draw  on  these  boots  of  mine.  Put  your  hands  to  them  \ 
put  your  will  to  them.    Quick  ! " 

"  Carton,  there  is  no  escaping  from  this  place ;  it  never 
can  be  done.    You  will  only  die  with  me.    It  is  madness." 

"  It  would  be  madness  if  I  asked  you  to  escape  ;  but  do 
I  ?  When  I  ask  you  to  pass  out  at  that  door,  tell  me  it  is 
madness  and  remain  here.  Change  that  cravat  for  this 
of  mine,  that  coat  for  this  of  mine.  While  you  do  it  let  me 
take  this  ribbon  from  your  hair,  and  shake  out  your  hair  like 
this  of  mine  !  " 

With  wonderful  quickness,  and  with  a  strength  both  of 
will  and  action,  that  appeared  quite  supernatural,  he  forced 
all  these  changes  upon  him.  The  prisoner  was  like  a  young 
child  in  his  hands. 

"  Carton  !  Dear  Carton  !  It  is  madness.  It  cannot  be 
accomplished,  it  never  can  be  done,  it  has  been  attempted, 
and  has  always  failed.  I  implore  you  not  to  add  your  death 
to  the  bitterness  of  mine." 

"  Do  I  ask  you,  my  dear  Darnay,  to  pass  the  door  ? 
When  I  ask  that,  refuse.  There  are  pen  and  ink  and  papei 
on  this  table.    Is  your  hand  steady  enough  to  write  ?  " 

"  It  was  when  you  came  in." 
Steady  it  again,  and  vv^rite  what  I  shall  dictate.  Quick 
friend,  quick !  " 

Pressing  his  hand  to  his  bewildered  head,  Darnay  sat  down 
at  the  table.  Carton,  with  his  right  hand  in  his  breast  stood 
close  beside  him. 


FIFTY- TWO, 


329 


"Write  exactly  as  I  speak.'* 
"  To  whom  do  I  address  it  ?  " 

"  To  no  one."    Carton  still  had  his  hand  in  his  breast, 

"Do  I  date  it?'' 

"No." 

The  prisoner  looked  up,  at  each  question.  Carton, 
standing  over  him  with  his  hand  in  his  breast,  looked  down. 

"  '  If  you  remember,'  "  said  Carton,  dictating,  "  '  the  words 
that  passed  between  us,  long  ago,  you  will  readily  comprehend 
this  when  you  see  it.  You  do  remember  them,  I  know.  It 
is  not  in  your  nature  to  forget  them.' " 

He  was  drawing  his  hand  from  his  breast ;  the  prisoner 
chancing  to  look  up  in  his  hurried  wonder  as  he  wrote,  the 
hand  stopped,  closing  upon  something. 

"  Have  you  written  '  forget  them  ? '  "  Carton  asked. 

"  I  have.    Is  that  a  weapon  in  your  hand  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  am  not  armed." 

"What  is  it  in  your  hand  ?  " 

"You  shall  know  directly.  Write  on;  there  are  but  a 
few  words  more."  He  dictated  again.  ^' '  1  am  thankful  that 
the  time  has  come,  when  I  can  prove  them.  That  I  do  so  is 
no  subject  for  regret  or  grief.'  "  As  he  said  these  words  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  writer,  his  hand  slowly  and  softly  moved 
down  close  to  the  writer's  face. 

The  pen  dropped  from  Darnay's  fingers  on  the  table,  and 
he  looked  about  him  vacantly. 

"  What  vapor  is  that  ? "  he  asked. 

"Vapor?" 

"  Something  that  crossed  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  conscious  of  nothing  ;  there  can  be  nothing  here. 
Take  up  the  pen  and  finish.    Hurry,  hurry !  " 

As  if  his  memory  were  impaired,  or  his  faculties  disordered, 
the  prisoner  made  an  effort  to  rally  his  attention.  As  he 
looked  at  Carton  with  clouded  eyes  and  with  an  altered 
manner  of  breathing.  Carton — his  hand  again  in  his  breast — 
looked  steadily  at  him. 

"  Hurry^,  hurry  !  " 

The  prisoner  bent  over  the  paper,  once  more. 

"  '  If  it  had  been  otherwise  ; '  "  Carton's  hand  was  again 
watchfully  and  softly  stealing  down ;  "  *  I  never  should  have 
used  the  longer  opportunity.  If  it  had  been  otherwise ; '  "  the 
hand  was  at  the  prisoner's  face  j  "  '  I  should  but  have  had  so 
much  the  iiioie  to  answer  for.    If  it  had  been  otherwise — ' 


330 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Carton  looked  at  the  pen  and  saw  it  was  trailing  oH  into  un 
intelligible  signs. 

Carton's  hand  moved  back  to  his  breast  no  more.  The 
prisoner  sprang  up  with  a  reproachful  look,  but  Carton's  hand 
was  close  and  firm  at  his  nostrils,  and  Carton's  left  arm 
caught  him  around  the  waist.  For  a  few  seconds  he  vainl) 
struggled  with  the  man  who  had  come  to  lay  down  his  life  i  n 
him  ;  but,  within  a  minute  or  so,  he  was  stretched  insensible 
on  the  ground. 

Quickly,  but  with  hands  as  true  to  thepurpose  as  his  heart 
was,  Carton  dressed  himself  in  the  clothes  the  prisoner  had 
laid  aside,  combed  back  his  hair,  and  tied  it  with  the  ribbon 
the  prisoner  had  worn.  Then,  he  softly  called,  "  Enter  there  ! 
Come  in ! and  the  Spy  presented  himself. 

You  see  ?  "  said  Carton,  looking  up,  as  he  kneeled  on  . 
one  knee  beside  the  insensible  figure,  putting  the  paper  in  the 
breast :  "  is  your  hazard  very  great  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Carton,''  the  Spy  answered,  with  a  timid  snap  oi 
his  lingers,  "  my  hazard  is  not  that,  in  the  thick  of  business 
here,  if  you  are  true  to  the  whole  of  your  bargain." 

"  Don't  fear  me.    I  will  be  true  to  the  death." 

"  You  must  be,  Mr.  Carton,  if  the  tale  of  fifty-two  is  to  be 
right.  Being  made  right  by  you  in  that  dress,  I  shall  have 
no  fear." 

"  Have  no  fear  !  I  shall  soon  be  out  of  the  w^ay  of  harm- 
ing you,  and  the  rest  will  soon  be  far  from  here,  please  God  ! 
Now,  get  assistance  and  take  me  to  the  coach." 

"  You  ?  "  said  the  . Spy  nervously. 

"Him,  man,  with  whom  I  have  exchanged.    You  go  out 
at  the  gate  by  which  you  brought  me  in  ?  " 
"Of  course." 

"  I  was  weak  and  faint  when  you  brought  me  in,  and  I  arn 
fainter  now  you  take  me  out.  The  parting  interview  has  over- 
powered me.  Such  a  thing  has  happened  here,  often,  and 
too  often.  Your  life  is  in  your  own  hands.  Quick  !  Call 
assistance  !  " 

"  You  swear  not  to  betray  me  ?  "  said  the  trembling  Spy. 
as  he  paused  for  a  last  moment. 

"  Man,  man  !  "  returned  Carton,  stamping  his  foot;  *Miave 
I  sworn  by  no  solemn  vow  already,  to  go  through  with  this, 
that  you  v^^aste  the  precious  moments  now  t  Take  him  your- 
self to  the  court-yard  you  know  of,  place  him  yourself  in  the 
carriage,  show  him  yourself  to  Mr.  Lorry,  tell  him  yourself  to 


FJFTY-TWO, 


give  him  no  restorative  but  air,  and  to  remember  my  words  of 
jast  night,  and  his  promise  of  last  night,  and  drive  away ! " 

The  Spy  withdrew,  and  Carton  seated  himself  at  the  table, 
resting  his  forehead  on  his  hands.  The  Spy  returned  imme- 
diately, with  two  men. 

"  How,  then  ?  said  one  of  them,  contemplating  the  fallen 
figure.  "  So  afflicted  to  find  that  his  friend  has  drawn  a  prize 
in  the  lottery  of  Sainte  Guillotine  ? " 

"A  good  patriot/'  said  the  other,  "could  hardly  have 
%        been  more  afflicted  if  the  Aristocrat  had  drawn  a  blank.'' 

They  raised  the  unconscious  figure,  placed  it  on  a  litter 
they  had  brought  to  the  door,  and  bent  to  carry  it  away. 

"  The  time  is  short,  Evremonde,"  said  the  Spy,  in  a  warn- 
ing voice. 

"  I  know  it  well,"  answered  Carton.  "  Be  careful  of  my 
friend,  I  entreat  you,  and  leave  me." 

"  Come,  then,  my  children,"  said  Barsad.  "  Lift  him, 
and  come  away  1 " 

The  door  closed,  and  Carton  was  left  alone.  Straining 
his  powers  of  listening  to  the  utmost,  he  listened  for  any 
sound  that  might  denote  suspicion  or  alarm.  There  was  none. 
Keys  turned,  doors  clashed,  footsteps  passed  along  distant 
passages  ;  no  cry  was  raised,  or  hurry  made,  that  seemed  un- 
usual. Breathing  more  freely  in  a  little  while,  he  sat  down 
at  the  table,  and  listened  again  until  the  clock  struck  two. 

Sounds  that  he  was  not  afraid  of,  for  he  divined  their 
meaning,  then  began  to  be  audible.  Several  doors  were 
opened  in  succession,  and  finally  his  own.  A  jailer,  with  a 
hst  in  his  hand,  looked  in,  merely  saying,  "Follow  me, 
Evr^monde  ! "  and  he  followed  into  a  large  dark  room,  at  a 
distance.  It  was  a  dark  winter  day,  and  what  with  the  shad- 
ows without,  he  could  but  dimly  discern  the  others  who  were 
brought  there  to  have  their  arms  bound.  Some  were  stand- 
ing ;  some  seated.  Some  were  lamenting,  and  in  restless 
motion  ;  but,  these  were  few.  The  great  majority  were  silent 
and  still,  locking  fixedly  at  the  ground. 

As  he  stood  by  the  wall  in  a  dim  corner,  while  some  of 
the  fifty-two  were  brought  in  after  him,  one  man  stopped  in 
passing,  to  embrace  him,  as  having  a  knowledge  of  him.  It 
thrilled  him  with  a  great  dread  of  discovery:  but  the  man 
went  on.  A  veiy  few  moments  after  that,  a  young  woiftan,  with 
a  sliglit  girlish  form,  a  sweet  spare  face  in  which  there  was  no 
vestige  of  cclofj  and  large  widely  queued  patient  eyes,  ros(9 


333 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


from  the  seat  where  he  had  observed  her  sitting,  and  came  ta 
speak  to  him. 

"  Citizen  Evremonde,"  she  said,  touching  him  with  hel 
cold  hand.  I  am  a  poor  little  seamstress,  who  was  with 
you  in  La  Force.'*' 

He  murmured  for  answer :  "  True.  I  forget  what  you 
were  accused  of  1  " 

"  Plots.  Though  the  just  Heaven  knows  I  am  innocent 
of  any.  Is  it  likely  ?  Who  would  think  of  plotting  with  a 
poor  little  weak  creature  like  me  ?  "  4 

The  forlorn  smile  with  which  she  said  it,  so  touched  him, 
that  tears  started  from  his  eyes. 

"  I  am  not  afraid  to  die,  Citizen  Evremonde,  but  I  have 
done  nothing.  I  am  not  unwilling  to  die,  if  the  Republic 
which  is  to  do  so  much  good  to  us  poor,  will  profit  by  my 
death  ;  but  I  do  not  know  how  that  can  be.  Citizen  Evre- 
monde.   Such  a  poor  weak  little  creature  ! 

As  the  last  thing  on  earth  that  his  heart  was  to  warm  and 
soften  to,  it  warmed  and  softened  to  this  pitiable  girl. 

"  I  heard  you  were  released,  Citizen  Evremonde.  I  hoped 
it  was  true  ? 

It  was.    But,  I  was  again  taken  and  condemned.'^ 

"  If  I  may  ride  with  you.  Citizen  Evremonde,  will  you  let 
me  hold  your  hand  1  I  am  not  afraid,  -but  I  am  little  and 
weak,  and  it  will  give  me  more  courage. 

As  the  patient  eyes  were  lifted  to  his  face,  he  saw  a  sud- 
den doubt  in  them,  and  then  astonishment.  He  pressed  the 
work-worn,  hunger  worn  young  fingers,  and  touched  his  lips. 

"  Are  you  dying  for  him  ? she  whispered. 

"  And  his  wife  and  child.    Hush  !  Yes." 

"  O  you  will  let  me  hold  your  brave  hand,  stranger? 

"  Hush  !    Yes,  my  poor  sister;  to  the  last." 

The  same  shadows  that  are  falling  on  the  prison,  are  fall- 
ing, in  that  same  hour  of  the  early  afternoon,  on  the  Barrier 
with  the  crowd  about  it,  when  a  coach  going  out  of  Paris 
drives  up  to  be  examined. 

"  Who  goes  here  ?    Whom  have  we  within  ?    Papers  ! " 

The  papers  are  handed  out,  and  read. 

"Alexandre  Manette.  Physician.  French.  Which  is 
he  ? "  . 

This  is  he  ;  this  helpless,  inarticulately  murmuring,  warv 
daring  old  man  pointed  out. 


FIFTY-TWO. 


333 


"  Apparently  the  Citizen-Doctor  is  not  in  his  right  mind  ? 
The  Revolution-fever  will  have  been  too  much  for  him  ? 
Greatly  too  much  for  him. 

"  Hah !    Many  will   suffer  it.    Lucie.    His  daughter. 
French.    Which  is  she  ?  " 
This  is  she. 

"  Apparently  it  must  be.    Lucie,  the  wife  of  Evremonde  \ 
3  it  not i*" 
It  is. 

"  Hah  !  Evremonde  has  an  assignation  elsewhere.  Lucie, 
her  child.    English.    This  is  she  ? 
She  and  no  other. 

"  Kiss  me,  child  of  Evremonde.  •  Now,  thou  hast  kissed  a 
good  Republican  ;  something  new  in  thy  family ;  remember 
it !    Sydney  Carton.    Advocate.    English.    Which  is  he  t 

He  lies  here,  in  this  corner  of  the  carriage.  He  too,  is 
pointed  out. 

^'  Apparently  the  English  advocate  is  in  a  swoon  ?  " 

It  is  hoped  he  will  recover  in  the  fresher  air.  It  is  repre- 
sented that  he  is  not  in  strong  health,  and  has  separated 
sadly  from  a  friend  who  is  under  the  displeasure  of  the  Re- 
public. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  It  is  not  a  great  deal,  that !  Many  are 
under  the  displeasure  of  the  Republic,  and  must  look  out  at 
the  little  window.  Jarvis  Lorry.  Banker.  English.  Which 
is  he?" 

"  I  am  he.    Necessarily  being  the  last." 

It  is  Jarvis  Lorry  who  has  replied  to  all  the  previous  ques- 
tions. It  is  Jarvis  Lorry  who  has  alighted  and  stands  with 
his  hand  on  the  coach  door,  replying  to  a  group  of  officials. 
They  leisurely  walk  round  the  carriage  and  leisurely  mount 
the  box,  to  look  at  what  little  luggage  it  carries  on  the  roof ; 
the  country-people  hanging  about,  press  nearer  to  the  coach 
doors  and  greedily  stare  in  ;  a  little  child,  carried  by  its 
mother,  has  its  short  arm  held  out  for  it,  that  it  may  touch 
the  wife  of  an  aristocrat  who  has  gone  to  the  Guillotine. 

"  Behold  your  papers,  Jarvis  Lorry,  countersigned." 

"  One  can  depart,  citizen  ?  " 
One  can  depart.     Forward,  my  postilions  !    A  good 
journey ! " 

"  I  salute  you,  citizens. — And  the  first  danger  passed !  " 
These  are  again  the  words  of  Jarvis  Lorry,  as  he  clasps 
his  hands,  and  looks  upward.    There  is  terror  in  the  carriage, 


334 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES- 


there  is  weeping,  there  is  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  insen 
sible  traveller. 

"  Are  we  not  going  too  slowly  ?  Can  they  not  be  induced 
to  go  faster  ?  "  asks  Lucie,  clinging  to  the  old  man. 

"  It  would  seem  like  flight,  my  darling.  I  must  not  urge 
them  too  much  ;  it  would  rouse  suspicion." 

"  Look  back,  look  back,  and  see  if  we  are  pursued  !  " 
The  road  is  clear,  my  dearest.    So  far,  we  are  not  pur 
sued." 

Houses  in  twos  and  threes  pass  by  us,  solitary  farms, 
ruinous  buildings,  dye  works,  tanneries,  and  the  like,  open 
country,  avenues  of  leafless  trees.  The  hard  uneven  pave- 
ment is  under  us,  the  soft  deep  mud  is  on  either  side.  SomiC- 
times,  we  strike  into  the  skirting  mud,  to  avoid  the  stones 
that  clatter  us  and  shake  us  ;  sometimes  we  stick  in  ruts  and 
sloughs  there.  The  agony  of  our  impatience  is  then  so  great, 
that  in  our  wild  alarm  and  hurry  we  are  for  getting  out  and 
running — hiding — doing  anything  but  stopping. 

Out  of  the  open  country,  in  again  among  ruinous  buildings, 
solitary  farms,  dye  works,  tanneries,  and  the  like,  cottages  in 
twos  and  threes,  avenues  of  leafless  trees.  Have  these  men 
deceived  us,  and  taken  us  back  by  another  road  ?  Is  not 
this  the  same  place  twice  over?  Thank  Heaven,  no.  A 
village.  Look  back,  look  back,  and  see  if  we  are  pursued  ! 
Hush !  the  posting-house. 

Leisurely,  our  four  horses  are  taken  out ;  leisurely,  the 
coach  stands  in  the  little  street,  bereft  of  horses,  and  with  no 
likelihood  upon  it  of  ever  moving  again ;  leisurely,  the  new 
horses  come  into  visible  existence,  one  by  one  ;  leisurely,  the 
new  postilions  follow,  sucking  and  plaiting  the  lashes  of  their 
whips ;  leisurely,  the  old  postilions  count  their  money,  make 
wrong  additions,  and  arrive  at  dissatisfied  results.  All  the 
time,  our  overfraught  hearts  are  beating  at  a  rate  that  would 
far  outstrip  the  fastest  gallop  of  the  fastest  horses  ever  foaled. 

At  length  the  new  postilions  are  in  their  saddles,  and  the 
old  are  left  behind.  We  are  through  the  village,  up  the  hill, 
and  down  the  hill,  and  on  the  low  watery  grounds.  Suddenly, 
the  postilions  exchange  speech  with  animated  gesticulation, 
and  the  horses  are  pulled  up,  almost  on  their  haunches.  We 
are  pursued 

"  Ho  !    Within  the  carriage  there.    Speak  then  !  " 
"  What  is  it  ? "  asked  Mr.  Lorry,  looking  out  at  window. 
How  many  did  they  say? " 


THE  KNITTING  DONE.  335 

I  do  not  understand  you." 
" — At  the  last  post.    How  many  to  the  Guillotine  to 
day  ?  " 

"  Fifty-two.'^ 

"  I  said  so !  A  brave  number !  My  fellow-citizen  here 
would  have  it  forty-two ;  ten  more  heads  are  worth  having. 
The  Guillotine  goes  handsomely.  I  love  it.  Hi  forward. 
Whoop  !  " 

The  night  comes  on  dark.  He  moves  more  ;  he  is  begin- 
ning  to  revive,  and  to  speak  intelligibly  :  he  thinks  they  are 
still  together ;  he  asks  him,  by  his  name,  what  he  has  in  his 
hand.  O  pity  us,  kind  Heaven,  and  help  us  !  Look  out,  look 
out,  and  see  if  we  are  pursued. 

The  wind  is  rushing  after  us,  and  the  clouds  are  flying 
after  us,  and  the  moon  is  plunging  after  us,  and  the  whole 
wild  night  is  in  pursuit  of  us ;  but,  so  far,  we  are  pursued  by 
nothing  else. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    KNITTING  DONE. 

In  that  same  juncture  of  time  when  the  Fifty-Two  awaited 
their  fate,  MadamiC  Defarge  held  darkly  ominous  council  with 
The  Vengeance  and  Jacques  Three  of  the  Revolutionary  Jury. 
Not  in  the  wine-shop  did  Madame  Defarge  confer  with  these 
ministers,  but  in  the  shed  of  the  v;ood-sawyer,  erst  a  mender 
of  roads.  The  sawyer  himself  did  not  participate  in  the  con- 
ference, but  abided  at  a  little  distance,  like  an  outer  satellite 
who  was  not  to  speak  until  required,  or  to  offer  an  opinion 
until  invited. 

"  But  our  Defarge,"  said  Jacques  Three,  "is  undoubtedly  a 
good  Republican      Eh  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  better,''  the  voluble  Vengeance  protested  in 
her  shrill  notes,  "  in  France." 

Peace,  little  Vengeance,"  said  Madame  Defarge,  laying 
her  hand  with  a  slight  frown  on  her  lieutenant's  lips,  "  hear 
me  speak.    My  husband,  fellow-citizen,  is  a  good  Republican 
and  a  bold  man  ;  he  has  deserved  well  of  the  Republic,  and 
15 


33(5  A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES 

possesses  its  confidence.  But  my  husband  has  his  weaknesseS| 
and  he  is  so  weak  as  to  relent  towards  this  Doctor." 

It  is  a  great  pity,"  croaked  Jacques  Three,  dubiously 
shaking  his  head,  with  his  cruel  fingers  at  his  hungry  mouth  \ 
^'it  is  not  quite  like  a  good  citizen  ;  it  is  a  thing  to  regret. ' 

"  See  you/^  said  madame,  "  I  care  nothing  for  this  Doct  or. 
[     Pie  may  v/ear  his  head  or  lose  it,  for  any  iniercst  I  f 
i  him  ;  it  is  all  one  to  me.    But,  the  Evremonvie  p'jop;:^  i.'- 
I J  be  e::terminated,  and  the  vvite  and  child  masL  loiuw  il.  w 
husband  and  father." 

She  has  a  fine  head  for  it,"  croaked  Jacques  Three.  "  I 
have  seen  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair  there,  and  they  looked 
charming  when  Samson  held  them  up."  Ogre  that  he  was^ 
he  spoke  like  an  epicure. 

Madame  Defarge  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  reflected  a 
little. 

,  "  The  child  also,"  observed  Jacques  Three,  with  a  medita- 
tive enjoyment  of  his  words,  has  golden  hair  and  blue  eyes. 
And  we  seldom  have  a  child  there.    It  is  a  pretty  sight ! 

"  In  a  word,"  said  Madame  Defarge,  commg  out  of  her 
short  abstraction,  "  I  cannot  trust  my  husband  in  this  matter. 
Not  only  do  I  feel,  since  last  night,  that  I  dare  not  confide  to 
him  the  details  of  my  projects  ;  but  also  I  feel  that  if  1  delay, 
there  is  danger  of  his  'giving  warning,  and  then  they  might 
escape." 

"  That  must  never  be,"  croaked  Jacques  Three  ;  no  one 
must  escape.    We  have  not  half  enough  as  it  is.    We  ought 

to  have  six  score  a  day." 

"In  a  word,"  Madame  Defarge  went  on,  "my  husband 
has  not  my  reason  for  pursuing  this  familv  to  annihilation, 
and  I  liave  not  his  reason  for  regardirr;:^  this  Doctor  v;ith  any 
sensibility.  1  must  act  for  myself,  therefore.  Come  hither, 
little  ciiizen." 

The  v/ood-saw3\'?r,  who  held  her  in  the  respect,  and  himself 
:n  the  submission  of  mortal  fear,  advanced  wiuh  his  hand  to 
nis  red  cap. 

•'Touching  those  sirrnals,  little  citizen,"  sa'd  M.^dam.e  De- 
far2:e,  sternly,  "thatshic  made  to  the  prisoners  ]  ycu  are  ready 
to  bear  witness  to  them  this  very  day? 

"  Ay,  ay,  v/hy  not !  "  cried  the  sav^yer.  "  Eveiy  da-'  in  all 
weathers,  from  two  to  four,  always  signalling,  sometimes  with 
the  little  one,  sometimes  without.  I  know  what  I  know.  I 
have  seen  with  my  eyes." 


7^HE  KNITTING  DONE. 


337 


He  made  all  manner  of  gestures  while  he  spoke,  as  if  in 
incidental  imitation  of  some  few  of  the  great  diversity  of  sig- 
nals that  he  had  never  seen. 

*'  Clearly  plots,"  said  Jacques  Three.    "Transparently  ! 

"There  is  no  doubt  of  the  Jury  ?  "  inquired  Madame  De^ 
farge,  letting  her  eyes  turn  to  him,  with  a  gloomy  smile. 

"  Rely  upon  the  patriotic  Jury,  dear  citizeness.  I  answer 
for  my  fellow  Jurymen." 

^*  Now,  let  me  see,"  said  Madame  Defarge,  pondering 
again.  "Yet  once  more  !  Can  I  spare  this  Doctor  to  my 
husband  ?  I  have  no  feeling  either  way.  Can  I  spare 
him  ?  " 

"  He  would  count  as  one  dead,"  observed  Jacques  Three, 
in  a  low  voice.  "  We  really  have  not  heads  enough  ;  it  would 
be  a  pity,  I  think." 

"  He  was  signalling  with  her  when  I  saw  her,"  argued 
Madame  Defarge  ;  "  I  cannot  speak  of  one  vv^ithout  the  other  \ 
and  I  must  not  be  silent,  and  trust  the  case  wholly  to  him,  this 
little  citizen  here.    For,  I  am  not  a  bad  witness." 

The  Vengeance  and  Jacques  Three  vied  with  each  other 
in  their  fervent  protestations  that  she  was  the  most  admirable 
and  marvellous  of  witnesses.  The  little  citizen,  not  to  be  out- 
done,  declared  her  to  be  a  celestial  witness. 

"  He  must  take  his  chance,"  said  Madame  Defarge.  "  No, 
I  cannot  spare  him  !  You  are  engaged  at  three  o'clock ;  you 
are  going  to  see  the  batch  of  to-day  executed. — You  ? " 

The  question  was  addressed  to  the  wood-sawyer,  who 
hurriedly  replied  in  the  affirmative :  seizing  the  occasion  to 
add  that  he  was  the  most  ardent  of  Republicans,  and  that  he 
would  be  in  effect  the  most  desolate  of  Republicans,  if  any- 
thing prevented  him  from  enjoying  the  pleasure  of  smoking 
his  afternoon  pipe  in  the  contemplation  of  the  droll  national 
barber.  He  w^as  so  very  demonstrative  herein,  that  he  might 
have  been  suspected  (perhaps  was,  by  the  dark  eyes  that 
looked  contemptuously  at  him  out  of  Madame  Defarge's  head) 
of  having  his  small  individual  fears  for  his  own  personal  safety 
every  hour  in  the  day. 

**  I,"  said  madam e,  "  am  equally  enf^aged  at  the  same 
place.  After  it  is  over — say  at  eight  to-night — come  you  to 
me,  in  Saint  Antoine,  and  we  will  give  information  against 
these  people  at  my  Section." 

The  wood-sawyer  said  he  would  be  proud  and  flattered  to 
attend  tha  citizeness.    The  citizeness  looking  at  him,  he  be 


338 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CfTIES. 


came  embarrassed,  evaded  her  glance  as  a  small  dog  would 
have  done,  retreated  among  his  wood,  and  hid  his  confusion 
over  the  handle  of  his  saw. 

Madame  Defarge  beckoned  the  Jurj^an  and  The  Ven- 
geance a  little  nearer  to  the  door,  and  there  expounded  her 
further  views  to  fnem  thus  : 

"  She  will  now  be  at  home,  awaiting  the  moment  of  his 
death.  She  will  be  mourning  and  grieving.  She  will  be  in  a 
state  of  mind  to  impeach  the  justice  of  the  Republic.  She 
will  be  full  of  sympathy  with  its  enemies.    I  will  go  to  her." 

"  What  an  admirable  woman ;  what  an  adorable  woman  ! 
exclaimed  Jacques  Three,  rapturously.  "  Ah,  my  cherished  !  " 
cried  The  Vengeance  ;  and  embraced  her. 

"Take  you  my  knitting,"  said  Madame  Defarge,  placing  it 
in  her  lieutenant's  hands,  "  and  have  it  ready  for  me  in  my 
usual  seat.  Keep  me  my  usual  chair.  Go  you  there,  straight, 
for  there  will  probably  be  a  greater  concourse  than  usual,  to 
day." 

"  I  willingly  obey  the  orders  of  my  Chief,"  said  The  Ven- 
geance  with  alacrity,  and  kissing  her  cheek.  "  You  will  not 
be  late  ? " 

"  I  shall  be  there  before  the  commencement." 

"  And  before  the  tumbrils  arrive.  Be  sure  you  are  there 
my  soul,"  said  The  Vengeance,  calling  after  her,  for  she  had 
already  turned  into  the  street,  "  before  the  tumbrils  arrive !  " 

Madame  Defarge  slightly  waved  her  hand,  to  imply  that 
she  heard,  and  might  be  relied  upon  to  arrive  in  good 
time,  and  so  went  through  the  mud,  and  round  the  corner  of 
the  prison  wall.  The  Vengeance  and  the  Juryman,  looking 
after  her  as  she  walked  away,  were  highly  appreciative  of  her 
fine  figure,  and  her  superb  moral  endowments. 

There  were  many  women  at  that  time,  upon  whom  the 
time  laid  a  dreadfully  disfiguring  hand  ;  but,  there  was  not 
one  among  them  more  to  be  dreaded  than  this  ruthless 
woman,  now  taking  her  way  along  the  streets.  Of  a  strong 
and  fearless  character,  of  shrewd  sense  and  readiness,  of  great 
determination,  of  that  kind  of  beauty  which  not  only  seems  to 
impart  to  its  possessor  firmness  and  animosity,  but  to  strike 
into  others  an  instinctive  recognition  of  those  qualities ;  the 
troubled  time  would  have  heaved  her  up,  under  any  circum- 
stances. But,  imbued  from  her  childhood  with  a  brooding 
sense  of  wrong,  and  an  inveterate  hatred  of  a  class,  opportu- 
nity had  developed  her  into  a  tigress.    She  v/as  absolutely 


THE  KNITTING  DONE. 


339 


without  pity.  If  she  had  ever  had  the  virtue  in  her,  it  had 
quite  gone  out  of  her. 

It  was  nothing  to  her,  that  an  innocent  man  was  to  die  foT 
the  sins  of  his  forefathers  ;  she  saw,  not  him,  but  them.  It 
was  nothing  to  her,  that  his  wife  was  to  be  made  a  widow  and 
his  daughter  an  orphan  ;  that  was  insufficient  punishment^ 
because  they  were  her  natural  enemies  and  her  pre}^,  and  as 
such  had  no  right  to  Uve.  To  appeal  to  her,  was  made  hope 
less  by  her  having  no  sense  of  pity,  even  for  herself.  If  she 
had  been  laid  low  in  the  streets,  in  any  of  the  many  encoun- 
ters in  which  she  had  been  engaged,  she  would  not  have 
pitied  herself ;  nor,  if  she  had  been  ordered  to  the  axe  to- 
morrow, would  she  have  gone  to  it  with  any  softer  feeling 
than  a  fierce  desire  to  change  places  with  the  man  who  sent 
her  there. 

Such  a  heart  Madame  Defarge  carried  under  her  rough 
robe.  Carelessly  worn,  it  was  a  becoming  robe  enough,  in  a 
certain  weird  way,  and  her  dark  hair  looked  rich  under  her 
coarse  red  cap.  Lying  hidden  in  her  bosom,  was  a  loaded 
pistol.  Lying  hidden  at  her  waist,  was  a  sharpened  dagger. 
Thus  accoutred,  and  walking  with  the  confident  tread  of  such 
a  character,  and  with  the  supple  freedom,  of  a  woman  who 
had  habitually  walked  in  her  girlhood,  bare  foot  and  bare- 
legged,  on  the  brown  sea-sand,  Madame  Defarge  took  her 
way  along  the  streets. 

Now,  when  the  journey  of  the  travelling  coach,  at  that 
very  moment  waiting  for  the  completion  of  its  load,  had  been 
planned  out  last  night,  the  difficulty  of  taking  Miss  Pross  in 
it  had  much  engaged  Mr.  Lorry's  attention.  It  was  not 
merely  desirable  to  avoid  overloading  the  coach,  but  it  was  of 
the  highest  importance  that  the  time  occupied  in  examining 
it  and  its  passengers,  should  be  reduced  to  the  utmost  ;  since 
their  escape  might  depend  on  the  saving  of  only  a  few  sec- 
onds here  and  there.  Finally,  he  had  proposed,  after  anxious 
consideration,  that  Miss  Pross  and  Jerry,  who  were  at  liberty 
to  leave  the  city,  should  leave  it  at  three  o'clock  in  the  lightest 
wheeled  conveyance  known  to  that  period.  Unincumbered 
with  luggage,  they  would  soon  overtake  the  coach,  and,  pass- 
ing it  and  preceding  it  on  the  road,  would  order  its  horses  in 
advance,  and  greatly  facilitate  its  progress  during  the  precious 
hours  of  the  night,  when  delay  was  the  most  to  be  dreaded. 

Seeing  in  this  arrangement  the  hope  of  rendering  real 
service  in  that  pressing  emergency,  Miss  Pross  hailed  it  with 


340 


A  7' ALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


joy.  She  and  Jerry  had  beheld  the  coach  start,  had  known 
who  it  was  that  Solomon  brought,  had  passed  some  ten  min- 
utes in  tortures  of  suspense,  and  were  now  concluding  theil 
arrangements  to  follow  the  coach,  even  as  Madame  Defarge, 
taking  her  way  through  the  streets,  now  'drew  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  else-deserted  lodging  in  which  they  held  tneir 
consultation 

Now  what  do  you  think,  Mr.  Cruncher, said  Miss  Pross^ 
whose  agitation  was  so  great  that  she  could  hardly  speak,  or 
stand,  or  move,  or  live  :  "  what  do  you  think  of  our  not  start- 
ing from  this  court-yard  ?  Another  carriage  having  already 
gone  from  here  to-day,  it  might  awaken  suspicion." 

"  My  opinion,  miss,"  returned  Mr.  Cruncher,  is  as  you're 
right.    Likewise  wot  I'll  stand  by  you,  right  or  wrong." 

"  I  am  so  distracted  with  fear  and  hope  for  our  precious 
creatures,"  said  Miss  Pross,  wildly  crying,  "  that  I  am  inca- 
pable of  forming  any  plan.  Are  yoii  capable  of  forming  any 
plan,  my  dear  good  Mr.  Cruncher  ?  " 

"  Respectin'  a  future  spear  o'  life,  miss,"  returned  Mr. 
Cruncher,  "  I  hope  so.  Respectin'  any  present  use  o'  this 
here  blessed  old  head  o'  mine,  I  think  not.  Would  you  do 
me  the  favor,  miss,  to  take  notice  o'  two  promises  and  wows 
wot  it  is  my  wishes  fur  to  record  in  this  here  crisis  ? " 

"  Oh,  for  gracious  sake  !  "  cried  Miss  Pross,  still  wildly 
crying,  record  them  at  once,  and  get  them  out  of  the  way, 
like  an  excellent  man." 

First,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  who  was  all  in  a  tremble,  and 
who  spoke  with  an  ashy  and  solemn  visage,  "  them  poor  things 
well  out  o'  this,  never  no  more  will  I  do  it,  never  no  more  !  " 

"  I  am  quite  sure,  Mr.  Cruncher,"  returned  Miss  Pross, 
"that  you  never  will  do  it  again,  whatever  it  is,  and  I  beg  you 
not  to  think  it  necessary  to  mention  more  particularly  what 
it  is." 

No,  miss,"  returned  Jerry,    it  shall  not  be  named  to  you. 
Second :  them  poor  things  well  out  o'  this,  and  never  no  more 
.  will  I  interfere  with  Mrs.  Cruncher's  flopping,  never  no  more  !  " 

"  Whatever  housekeeping  arrangement  that  may  be,'^  said 
Miss  Pross,  striving  to  dry  her  eyes  and  compose  herself,  I 
have  no  doubt  it  is  best  that  Mrs.  Cruncher  should  have  it 
entirely  under  her  own  superintendence. — O  my  poor  dar- 
lings !  " 

"  I  go  so  far  as  to  say,  miss,  morehover,"  proceeded  Mr. 
Cruncher,  with  a  most  alarming  tendency  to  hold  forth  as 


THE  KNITTING  DONE. 


345 


from  a  pulpit — and  let  my  words  be  took  down  and  took  to 
Mrs.  Cruncher  through  yourself — that  wot  my  opinions  re= 
spectin'  flopping  has  undergone  a  change,  and  that  wot  I  only 
hope  with  all  my  heart  as  Mrs.  Crunche-r  may  be  flopping  at 
the  present  time." 

''There,  there,  there  !  I  hope  she  is,  my  dear  man,"  cried 
the  distracted  Miss  Pross,  "and  I  hope  she  flnds  it  an^\ve^]n^,^, 
'.:ier  expectations." 

"  Forbid  it,"  proceeded  Mr.  Cruncher,  with  additional  so 
iemnity,  additional  slowness,  and  additional  tendency  to  hold 
forth  and  hold  out,  "  as  anything  wot  I  have  ever  said  or  clone 
should  be  wisited  on  my  earnest  wishes  for  them  poor  creeturs 
now !  Forbid  it  as  we  shouldn't  all  flop  (if  it  was  anyways 
conwenient)  to  get  'em  out  o'  this  here  dismal  risk  !  Forbid  it, 
miss  !  Wot  I  say,  for — bid  it !  "  This  was  Mr.  Cruncher's 
conclusion  after  a  protracted  but  vain  endeavor  to  find  a  bet- 
ter one. 

And  still  Madame  Defarge,  pursuing  her  way  along  the 
streets,  came  nearer  and  nearer. 

"  If  we  ever  get  back  to  our  native  land,"  said  Miss  Pross, 
"you- may  rely  upon  my  telling  Mrs.  Cruncher  as  much  as  I 
may  be  able  to  remember  and  understand  of  what  you  have 
so  impressively  said ;  and  at  all  events  you  may  be  sure  'that 
I  shall  bear  witness  to  your  being  thoroughly  in  earnest  at 
this  dreadful  time.  Now,  pray  let  us  think  !  My  esteemed 
Mr.  Cruncher  let  us  think !  " 

Still,  Madame  Defarge,  pursuing  her  way  along  the 
streets,  came  nearer  and  nearer. 

"  If  you  were  to  go  before,"  said  Miss  Pross,  "and  stop 
the  vehicle  and  horses  from  coming  here,  and  were  to  wait 
somewhere  for  me  ;  wouldn't  that  be  best  " 

Mr.  Cruncher  thought  it  might  be  best. 

"  Where  could  you  wait  for  me  ?  '^  asked  Miss  Pross. 

Mr.  Cruncher  was  so  bewildered  that  he  could  think  of  no 
locality  but  Temple  Ear.  Alas  !  Temple  Ear  was  hundreds 
of  miles  away,  and  Madame  Defarge  was  drawing  very  near 
indeed. 

*'Eythe  cathedral  door,"  said  Miss  Pross.  ''Would  it  be 
much  out  of  the  way,  to  take  me  in,  near  the  great  cathedral 
door  between  the  two  towers  ? 

No,  miss,"  answered  Mr.  Cruncher. 

"Then,  like  the  best  of  men,"  said  Miss  Pross,  "go  to 
the  posting-house  straight,  and  make  that  change." 


342 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


I  am  doubtful,*'  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  hesitating  and  shafe 
ing  his  head,  "  about  leaving  of  you,  you  see.  We  don't  knoM 
what  may  happen." 

"Heaven  knows  -we  don't,"  returned  Miss  Pross,  "but 
have  no  fear  for  me.  Take  me  in  at  the  cathedral,  at  three 
o'clock,  or  as  near  it  as  you  can,  and  I  am  sure  it  will  be 
better  than  our  going  from  here.  1  feel  certain  of  it.  There  ! 
Bless  you,  Mr.  Cruncher  1  Think — not  of  me,  but  of  the  lives 
that  may  depend  on  both  of  us  ! 

This  exordium,  and  Miss  Press's  two  hands  in  quite  ag- 
onized entreaty  clasping  his,  decided  Mr.  Cruncher.  With  an 
encouraging  nod  or  two,  he  immediately  went  out  to  alter  the 
arrangements,  and  left  her  by  herself  to  follow  as  she  had 
proposed. 

The  having  originated  a  precaution  which  was  already  in 
course  of  execution,  vv^as  a  great  relief  to  Miss  Pross,  The" 
necessity  of  composing  her  appearance  so  that  it  should  at- 
tract no  special  notice  in  the  streets,  was  another  relief.  She 
looked  at  her  watch,  and  it  was  twenty  minutes  past  two. 
She  had  no  time  to  lose,  but  must  get  ready  at  once. 

Afraid,  in  her  extreme  perturbation,  of  the  loneliness  of. 
the  deserted  rooms,  and  of  half-imagined  faces  peeping  from 
behind  every  open  door  in  them,  Miss  Pross  got  a  basin  of 
cold  water  and  began  laving  her  eyes,  which  were  swollen 
and  red.  Haunted  by  her  feverish  apprehensions,  she  could 
not  bear  to  have  her  sight  obscured  for  a  minute  at  a  time  by 
the  dripping  water,  but  constantly  paused  and  looked  round 
to  see  that  there  was  no  one  watching  her.  In  one  of  those 
pauses  she  recoiled  and  cried  out,  for  she  saw  a  figure  stand- 
ing in  the  room. 

The  basin  fell  to  the  ground  broken,  and  the  water  flowed 
to  the  feet  of  Madame  Defarge.  By  strange  stern  ways,  and 
through  much  staining  blood,  those  feet  had  come  to  meet 
that  water. 

Madame  Defarge  looked  coldly  at  her,  and  said,  "  The 
wife  of  Evremonde  ;  where  is  she  ? " 

It  flashed  upon  Miss-Pross's  mind  that  the  doors  were  all 
standing  open,  and  wjould  suggest  the  flight.  Her  first  act 
was  to  shut  them.  There  were  four  in  the  room,  and  she  shut 
them  all.  She  then  placed  herself  before  the  door  of  the 
chamber  which  Lucie  had  occupied. 

Madame  Defarge's  dark  eyes  followed  her  through  this 
rapid  movement,  and  rested  on  her  when  it  was  finished. 


THK  KNITTING  DONE. 


343 


Miss  Pross  had  nothing  beautiful  about  her ;  years  had  not 
tamed  the  wildness,  or  softened  the  grimness,  of  her  appear- 
ance ;  but,  she  too  was  a  determined  woman  in  her  different 
way,  and  she  measured  Madame  Defarge  with  her  eyes,  every 
inch. 

"You  might,  from  your  appearance,  be  the  wife  of  Luci^ 
fer,"  said  Miss  Pross,  in  her  breathing.  "  Nevertheless,  you 
shall  not  get  the  better  of  me.    I  am  an  Englishwoman." 

Madame  Defarge  looked  at  her  scornfully,  but  still  with 
something  of  Miss  Pross's  own  perception  that  they  two  were 
at  bay.  She  saw  a  tight,  hard,  wiry  woman  before  her,  as 
Mr.  Lorry  had  seen  in  the  same  figure  a  woman  with  a  strong 
hand,  in  the  years  gone  by.  She  knew  full  well  that  Miss 
Pross  was  the  family's  devoted  friend ;  Miss  Pross  knew  full 
well  that  Madame  Defarge  was  the  family's  malevolent  en- 
emy. 

"  On  my  way  yonder,'^  said  Madame  Defarge,  with  a  slight 
movement  of  her  hand  towards  the  fatal  spot,  "  where  they 
reserve  my  chair  and  my  knitting  for  me,  I  am  come  to  make 
my  compliments  to  her  in  passing.    I  wish  to  see  her." 

"  I  know  that  your  intentions  are  evil,"  said  Miss  Pross, 
"and  you  may  depend  upon  it,  I'll  hold  my  own  against 
them." 

Each  spoke  in  her  own  language  ;  neither  understood  the 
other's  words ;  both  were  very  watchful,  and  intent  to  deduce 
from  look  and  manner,  what  the  unintelligible  words  meant. 

It  will  do  her  no  good  to  keep  herself  concealed  from  me 
at  this  moment,"  said  Madame  Defarge.  "Good  patriots 
will  know  what  that  means.  Let  me  see  her.  Go  tell  her 
that  I  wish  to  see  her.    Do  you  hear  ? " 

"  If  those  eyes  of  yours  v/ere  bed-winches,"  returned  Miss 
Pross,  "  and  I  was  an  English  four-poster,  they  shouldn't  lose 
a  splinter  of  me.  No,  you  wicked  foreign  woman  ;  I  am  your 
match." 

Madame  Defarge  was  not  likely  to  follow  these  idiomatic 
remarks  in  detail ;  but,  she  so  far  understood  them  as  to  per- 
ceive that  she  was  set  at  naught. 

"  Woman  imbecile  and  pig-like  !  "  said  Madame  Defarge, 
frowning.  "  I  take  no  answer  from  you.  I  demiand  to  see 
her.  Either  tell  her  that  I  demand  to  see  her,  or  stand  out 
of  the  way  of  the  door  and  let  me  go  to  her  !  "  This,  with 
an  angry  explanatory  wave  of  her  right  arm. 

"  I  little  thought,"  said  Miss  Press,  "  that  J  should  evef 


344 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


want  to  understand  your  nonsensical  language;  but  I  would 
give  all  I  have,  except  the  clothes  I  wear,  to  know  whether 
you  suspect  the  truth,  or  any  part  of  it." 

Neither  of  them  for  a  single  moment  released  the  other's 
eyes.  Madame  Detarge  had  not  moved  from  the  spot  where 
she  stood  when  Miss  Pross  first  became  aware  of  her ;  but, 
she  now  advanced  one  step. 

I  am  a  Briton,"  said  Miss  Pross,  "  I  am  desperate.  1 
don't  care  an  English  Twopence  for  myself.  I  know  that 
the  longer  I  keep  you  here,  the  greater  hope  there  is  for  my 
Ladybird.  I'll  not  leave  a  handful  of  that  dark  hair  upon 
your  head,  if  you  lay  a  finger  on  me  !  " 

Thus  Miss  Pross,  with  a  shake  of  her  head  and  a  flash  of 
her  eyes  between  every  rapid  sentence,  and  every  rapid  sen- 
tence a  whole  breath.  Thus  Miss  Pross,  who  had  never 
struck  a  blow  in  her  life. 

But,  her  courage  was  of  that  emotional  nature  that  it 
brought  the  irrepressible  tears  into  her  eyes.  This  was  a 
courage  that  Madame  Defarge  so  little  comprehended  as  to 
mistake  for  weakness.  Ha,  ha  !  "  she  laughed,/'  you  poor 
wretch  !  What  are  you  worth  !  I  address  myself  to  that 
Doctor."  Then  she  raised  her  voice  and  called  out,  "  Citizen 
Doctor !  Wife  of  Evremonde  !  Child  of  Evremonde  1  Any 
person  but  this  miserable  fool,  answer  the  Citizeness  De- 
farge !  " 

Perhaps  the  following  silence,  perhaps  some  latent  dis- 
closure in  the  expression  of  Miss  Press's  face,  perhaps  a 
sudden  misgiving  apart  from  either  suggestion,  whispered  to 
Madame  Defarge  that  they  were  gone.  Three  of  the  doors 
she  opened  swiftly,  and  looked  in. 

"  Those  rooms  are  all  in  disorder,  there  has  been  hurried 
packing,  there  are  odds  and  ends  upon  the  ground.  There  is 
no  one  in  that  room  behind  you  !    Let  me  look." 

"  Never  !  "  said  Miss  Pross,  who  understood  the  request 
as  perfectly  as  Madame  Defarge  understood  the  answer. 

''  If  they  are  not  in  that  room,  they  are  gone,  and  can  be 
pursued  and  brought  back,"  said  Madame  Defarge  to  herself. 

**As  long  as  you  don't  know  whether  they  are  in  that  room 
or  not,  you  are  uncertain  what  to  do,"  said  Miss  Pross  to 
herself  ;  ^'and  you  shall  not  know  that,  if  I  can  prevent  }our 
knowing  it :  and  know  that,  or  not  know  that,  you  shall  not 
leave  here  while  I  can  hold  you." 

J  have  been  in  the  streets  from  the  first,  nothing  has 


THE  KNITTING  DONE. 


345 


Stopped  me,  I  will  tear  you  to  pieces,  but  I  will  have  you  froni 
that  door,"  said  Madame  Defarge. 

We  are  alone  at  the  top  of  a  high  house  in  a  solitary 
court-yard,  we  are  not  likely  to  be  heard,  and  I  pray  for  bodily 
strength  to  keep  you  here,  while  every  minute  you  are  here  is 
worth  a  hundred  thousand  guineas  to  my  darling,"  said  Miss 
Pross. 

Madame  Defarge  made  at  the  door.  Miss  Pross,  on  the 
instinct  of  the  moment,  seized  her  round  the  waist  in  both  her 
arms,  and  held  her  tight.  It  was  in  vain  for  Madame  De- 
farge to  struggle  and  to  strike ;  Miss  Pross,  with  the  vigorous 
tenacity  of  love,  always  so  much  stronger  than  hate,  clasped 
her  tight,  and  even  lifted  her  from  the  floor  in  the  struggle 
that  they  had.  The  two  hands  of  Madame  Defarge  buffeted 
and  tore  her  face  ;  but.  Miss  Pross,  with  her  head  down,  held 
her  round  the  waist,  and  clung  to  her  with  more  than  the  holcf 
of  a  drowning  woman. 

Soon,  Madame  Defarge's  hands  ceased  to  strike,  and  felt 
at  her  encircled  waist.  "  It  is  under  my  arm,"  said  Miss 
Pross,  in  smothered  tones,  you  shall  not  draw  it.  I  am 
stronger  than  you,  I  bless  Heaven  for  it.  I'll  hold  you  till 
one  or  other  of  us  faints  or  dies  !  " 

Madame  Defarge's  hands  were  at  her  bosom.  Miss  Pross 
looked  up,  saw  what  it  w^as,  struck  at  it,  struck  out  a  flash  and 
a  crash,  and  stood  alone — blinded  with  smoke. 

All  this  was  in  a  second.  As  the  smoke  cleared,  leaving 
an  awful  stillness,  it  passed  out  on  the  air,  like  the  soul  of  the 
furious  woman  whose  body  lay  lifeless  on  the  ground. 

In  the  first  fright  and  horror  of  her  situation,  Miss  Pross 
passed  the  body  as  far  from  it  as  she  could,  and  ran  down  the 
stairs  to  call  for  fruitless  help.  Happily,  she  bethought 
herself  of  the  consequences  of  what  she  did,  in  time  to  check 
herself  and  go  back.  It  was  dreadful  4o  go  in  at  the  door 
again  ;  but,  she  did  go  in,  and  even  went  near  it,  to  get  the 
bonnet  and  other  things  that  she  must  wear.  These  she  put 
on,  out  on  the  staircase,  first  shutting  and  locking  the  door 
and  taking  away  the  key.  She  then  sat  down  on  the  stairs  a 
few  moments  to  breathe  and  to  cry,  and  then  got  up  and 
hurried  away. 

By  good-fortune  she  had  a  veil  on  her  bonnet,  or  she 
could  hardly  have  gone  along  the  streets  without  being 
stopped.  By  good-fortune,  too,  she  was  naturally  so  peculiar 
in  appearance  as  not  to  show  disfigurement  like  any  other 


346 


A  'TALE  OF  TWO  C/T/TS. 


woman.     She  needed  both  advantages,  for  the  marks  of- 
griping  fingers  were  deep  in  her  face,  and  her  hair  was  torn, 
and  her  dress  (hastily  composed  with  unsteady  hands)  was 
clutched  and  dragged  a  hundred  ways. 

In  crossing  the  bridge,  she  dropped  the  door  key  in  the 
river.  Arriving  at  the  cathedral  some  few  minutes  before  her 
escort,  and  waiting  there,  she  thought,  what  if  the  key  were 
already  taken  in  a  net,  what  if  it  were  identified,  what  if  the 
door  were  opened  and  the  remains  discovered,  what  if  she 
were  stopped  at  the  gate,  sent  to  prison,  and  charged  with 
murder  !  In  the  midst  of  these  fluttering  thoughts,  the  escort 
appeared,  took  her  in,  and  took  her  away. 

"  Is  there  any  noise  in  the  streets   "  she  asked  him. 

"  The  usual  noises,"  Mr.  Cruncher  replied  ;  and  looked 
surprised  by  the  question  and  by  her  aspect. 

"  I  don't  hear  you,"  said  Miss  Pross.    "  What  do  you 
say  ?  " 

'  It  was  in  vain  for  Mr.  Cruncher  to  repeat  what  he  said  ; 
Miss  Pross  could  not  hear  him.  "  So  I'll  nod  my  head,'^ 
thought  Mr.  Cruncher,  amazed,  at  all  events  she'll  see  that.'* 
And  she  did. 

"  Is  there  any  noise  in  the  streets  now   "  asked  Miss  Pross 
again,  presently. 

Again  Mr.  Cruncher  nodded  his  head. 
"  I  don't  hear  it." 

"  Gone  deaf  in  a  hour  ?  "  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  ruminating, 
with  his  mind  much  disturbed ;  "  wot's  com.e  to  her  " 

"  I  feel,"  said  Miss  Pross,  ^'  as  if  there  had  been  a  flash 
and  a  crash,  and  that  crash  was  the  last  thing  I  should  ever 
hear  in  this  life." 

"  Blest  if  she  ain't  in  a  queer  condition ! "  said  Mr. 
Cruncher,  more  and  more  disturbed.  "Wot  can  she  have 
been  a  takin',  to  kee^p  her  courage  up?  Hark  !  There's  the 
roll  of  them  dreadful  carts  !    Y ou  can  hear  that,  miss  1 " 

"  I  can  hear,"  said  Miss  Pross,  seeing  that  he  spoke  to 
her,  "  nothing.  O,  my  good  man,  there  was  first  a  great 
crash,  and  then  a  great  stillness,  and  that  stillness  seems  to 
be  fixed  and  unchangeable,  never  to  be  broken  any  more  as 
long  as  my  life  lasts." 

If  she  don't  hear  the  roll  of  those  dreadful  carts,  now 
very  nigh  their  journey's  end,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  glancing 
over  his  shoulder,  "  it's  my  opinion  that  indeed  she  never  will 
hear  anything  else  in  this  world." 

And  indeed  she  never  did. 


^THE  FOOTSTEPS  DIE  OUT  FOR  EVER, 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  FOOTSTEPS  DIE  OUT  FOR  EVER. 

Along  'he  Paris  streets,  the  death-carts  rumble,  hollow 
and  harsh.  Six  tumbrils  carry  the  day's  wine  to  La  Guillotine. 
All  the  devouring  and  insatiate  Monsters  imagined  since  im- 
agination could  record  itself,  are  fused  in  the  one  realization. 
Guillotine.  And  yet  there  is  not  in  France,  with  its  rich  variety 
of  soil  and  climate,  a  blade,  a  leaf,  a  root,  a  sprig,  a  pepper- 
corn, which  will  grow  to  maturity  under  conditions  more  cer- 
tain than  those  that  have  produced  this  horror.  Crush  human- 
ity out  of  shape  once  more,  under  similar  hammers,  and  it  will 
twist  itself  into  the  same  tortured  forms.  Sov/  the  same  seed 
of  rapacious  license  and  oppression  over  again,  and  it  will 
surely  yield  the  same  fruit  according  to  its  kind. 

Six  tumbrils  roll  along  the  streets.  Change  these  back 
again  to  what  they  w^ere,  thou  powerful  enchanter,  Time,  and 
they  shall  be  seen  to  be  the  carriages  of  absolute  monarchs, 
the  equipages  of  feudal  nobles,  the  toilettes  of  flaring  Jeza- 
bels,  the  churches  that  are  not  my  father's  house  but  dens  of 
thieves,  the  huts  of  millions  of  starving  peasants !  No  ;  the 
great  magician  who  majestically  works  out  the  appointed 
order  of  the  creator,  never  reverses  his  transformations.  If 
thou  be  changed  into  this  shape  by  the  will  of  God,''  say  the 
seers  to  the  enchanted,  in  the  v/ise  Arabian  stories,  then 
remain  so  !  But,  if  thou  wear  this  form  through  mere  passing 
conjuration,  then  resume  thy  former  aspect !  "  Changeless 
and  hopeless,  the  tumbrils  roll  along. 

As  the  som.bre  wheels  of  the  six  carts  go  round,  they  seem 
to  plough  up  a  long  crooked  furrow  among  the  populace  in 
the  streets.  Ridges  of  faces  are  thrown  to  this  side  and  to 
that,  and  the  ploughs  go  steadily  onward.  So  used  are  the 
regular  inhabitants  of  the  houses  to  the  spectacle,  that  in 
many  windows  there  are  no  people,  and  in  some  the  occupa- 
tion of  the  hands  is  not  so  much  as  suspended,  while  the  eyes 
survey  the  faces  in  the  tumbrils.  Here  and  there,  the  in- 
mate has  visitors  to  see  the  sight ;  then  he  points  his  fmger, 
with  something  of  the  complacency  of  a  curator  or  authorized 
exponent,  to  this  cart  and  to  this,  and  seemsjo  tell  who  sat 
here  yesterday,  and  who  there  the  day  before'. 


343 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Of  the  riders  in  the  tumbrils,  some  observe  these  things,  and 
all  things  on  their  last  roadside,  with  an  impassive  stare ;  others, 
with  a  lingering  interest  in  the  ways  of  life  and  men.  Some, 
seated  with  drooping  heads,  are  sunk  in  silent  despair ;  again, 
there  are  some  so  heedful  of  their  looks  that  they  cast  upon  the 
multitude ^such  glances  as  they  have  seen  in  theatres,  and  in 
pictures.  Several  close  their  eyes,  and  think,  or  try  to  get 
their  straying  thoughts  together.  Only  one,  and  he  a  miser- 
able  creature,  of  a  crazed  aspect,  is  so  shattered  and  made 
drunk  by  horror,  that  he  sings,  and  tries  to  dance.  Not  one 
of  the  whole  number  appeals  by  look  or  gesture,  to  the  pity 
of  the  people. 

There  is  a  guard  of  sundry  horsemen  riding  abreast  of  the 
tumbrils,  and  faces  are  often  turned  up  to  some  of  them,  and 
they  are  asked  some  question.  It  would  seem  to  be  always 
the  same  question,  for,  it  is  always  followed  by  a  press  of 
people  towards  the  third  cart.  The  horsemen  abreast  of  that 
cart,  frequently  point  out  one  man  in  it  with  their  swords. 
The  leading  curiosity  is,  to  know  which  is  he ;  he  stands  at 
the  back  of  the  tumbril  with  his  head  bent  down,  to  converse 
with  a  mere  girl  who  sits  on  the  side  of  the  cart,  and  holds 
his  hand.  He  has  no  curiosity  or  care  for  the  scene  about 
him,  and  always  speaks  to  the  girl.  Here  and  there  in  the 
long  street  of  St.  Honore,  cries  are  raised  against  him.  If 
they  move  him  at  all,  it  is  only  to  a  quiet  smile,  as  he  shakes 
his  hair  a  little  more  loosely  about  his  face.  He  cannot  easily 
touch  his  face,  his  arms  being  bound. 

On  the  steps  of  a  church,  awaiting  the  coming-up  of  the 
tumbrils,  stands  the  Spy  and  prison-sheep.  He  looks  into 
the  first  of  them  :  not  there.  He  looks  into  the  second :  not 
there.  He  already  asks  himself,  "  Has  he  sacrificed  me  ? " 
when  his  face  clears,  as  he  looks  into  the  third. 

"Which  is  Evremonde  ?  "  says  a  man  behind  him. 

"  That.    At  the  back  there.'' 

"  With  his  hand  in  the  girl's  ? 

*^  Yes." 

Tlie  man  cries,  "  Down,  Evrdmonde  !  To  the  Guillotine 
all  aristocrats  !    Down,  Evremonde  ! " 

"  Hush,  hush !  "  the  Spy  entreats  him,  timidly. 
And  why  not,  citizen  ?  " 

"  He  is  going  to  pay  the  forfeit :  it  will  be  paid  in  five  min* 
ates  more.    Let  him  be  at  peace." 

But  the  man  continuing  to  exclaim,  "  Down  Evremonde  \  * 


THE  FOOTSTEPS  DIE  OUT  FOR  EVER. 


349 


the  face  of  Evremonde  is  for  a  moment  turned  towards  him. 
Evremonde  then  sees  the  Spy,  and  looks  attentively  at  him, 
and  goes  his  way. 

The  clocks  are  on  the  stroke  of  three,-and  the  furrow 
ploughed  among  the  populace  is  turning  lound,  to  come  on 
into  the  place  of  execution,  and  end.  The  rid;^es  thrown  to 
this  side  and  to  that,  now  crumble  in  and  close  beiund  the  last 
plough  as  it  passes  on,  for  all  are  following  to  the  Guillotine. 
In  front  of  it,  seated  in  chairs,  as  in  a  garden  of  public  diver- 
sion, are  a  number  of  women,  busily  knitting.  On  one  of  the 
foremost  chairs,  stands  The  Vengeance,  looking  about  for  her 
friend. 

Therese  !  "  she  cries,  in  her  shrill  tones.  Who  has  seen 
her  ?    Therese  Defarge  !  " 

She  never  missed  before,"  says  a  knitting-woman  of  the 
sisterhood. 

"  No  ;  nor  will  she  miss  now,'^  cries  The  Vengeance, 
petulantly.  "Therese." 

"  Louder,"  the  woman  recommends. 

Ay  !  Louder,  Vengeance,  much  louder,  and  still  she  will 
scarcely  hear  thee.  Louder  yet,  Vengeance,  with  a  little  oath 
or  so  added,  and  j'Ct  it  will  hardly  bring  her.  Send  other 
women  up  and  down  to  seek  her,  lingering  somewhere  :  and 
yet  although  the  messengers  have  done  dread  deeds,  it  is 
questionable  whether  of  their  own  wills  they  will  go  far  enough 
to  find  her  1 

Bad  Fortune  !  "  cries  The  Vengeance,  stamping  her  foot 
in  the  chair,  "  and  here  are  the  tumbrils!  And  Evremonde 
will  be  despatched  in  a  wink,  and  she  not  here  !  See  her  knit- 
ting in  my  hand,  and  her  empty  chair  ready  for  her.  I  cry 
with  vexation  and  disappointment !  " 

As  the  Vengeance  descends  from  her  elevation  to  do  it,  the 
tumbrils  begin  to  discharge  their  loads.  The  ministers  of 
Sainte  Guillotine  are  robed  and  ready.  Crash  ! — A  head  is 
held  up,  and  the  knitting-women  who  scarcely  lifted  their  eyes 
io  look  at  it  a  moment  ago  v/hen  it  could  think  and  speak, 
count  One. 

The  second  tumbril  empties  and  moves  on ;  the  third 
comes  up.  Crash  ! — And  the  knitting-women,  never  faltering 
or  pausing  in  their  work,  count  Two. 

The  supposed  Evremonde  descends,  and  the  seamstress  is 
lifted  out  next  after  him.  He  has  not  relinquished  her  pa- 
tient hand  in  getting  out,  but  still  holds  it  as  he  promised.  He 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


gently  places  her  with  her  back  to  the  crashing  engine  that 
constantly  whirrs  up  and  falls,  and  she  looks  into  his  face  and 
thanks  him. 

"  But  for  ycTu,  dear  stranger,  I  should  not  be  so  composed, 
for  I  am  naturally  a  poor  little  thing,  faint  of  heart ;  nor  should 
I  have  been  able  to  raise  my  thoughts  to  Him  who  was  put 
to  death,  that  we  might  have  hope  and  com.fort  here  to-day. 
I  think  you  were  sent  to  me  by  Heaven." 

"  Or  you  to  me,''  says  Sydney  Carton.  "  Keep  your  eyes 
upon  me,  dear  child,  and  mind  no  other  object." 

"  I  mind  nothing  while  I  hold  your  hand.  I  shall  mind 
nothing  when  I  let  it  go,  if  they  are  rapid." 

"  They  will  be  rapid.    Fear  not !  " 

The  two  stand  in  the  fast-thinning  throng  of  victims,  but 
they  speak  as  if  they  were  alone.  Eye  to  eye,  voice  to  voice, 
hand  to  hand,  lieart  to  heart,  these  two  children  of  the  Uni- 
versal Mother,  else  so  wide  apart  and  differing,  have  come 
together  on  the  dark  highway,  to  repair  home  together,  and 
to  r^st  in  her  bosom. 

"  Brave  and  generous  friend,  will  you  let  me  ask  you  one 
last  question  ?  I  am  very  ignorant,  and  it  troubles  me — ^just 
a  little." 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is." 

"  I  have  a  cousin,  an  only  relative  and  an  orphan,  like 
myself,  whom  I  love  very  dearly.  She  is  five  years  younger 
than  I,  and  she  lives  in  a  farmer's  house  in  the  south  country. 
Poverty  parted  us,  and  she  knows  nothing  of  my  fate — for  I 
cannot  write — and  if  I  could,  how  should  I  tell  her !  It  is 
better  as  it  is." 

"  Yes,  yes  :  better  as  it  is." 
What  I  have  been  thinking  as  v/e  came  along,  and  what 
I  am  still  thinking  now,  as  I  look  into  your  kind  strong  face 
which  gives  me  so  much  support,  is  this  : — If  the  RepubUc 
really  does  good  to  the  poor,  and  they  come  to  be  less  hungry 
and  in  all  ways  to  suffer  less,  she  may  live  a  long  time  :  she 
may  even  live  to  be  old." 

What  then,  my  gentle  sister  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  :  "  the  uncomplaining  eyes  in  which  there 
is  so  much  endurance,  fill  with  tears,  and  the  lips  part  a  little 
more  and  tremble :  that  it  will  seem  long  to  me,  while  I 
wait  for  her  in  the  better  land  where  I  trust  both  you  and  I 
will  be  mercifully  sheltered  ?  " 

"  It  cannot  be,  my  child  ;  there  is  no  Time  there,  and  no 
trouble  there." 


TH^  FOOTSTEPS  DIE  OUT  FOR  EVER, 


"  You  comfort  me  so  much  !    I  am  so  ignorant.    Am  I  to  . 
kiss  you  now  ?    Is  the  moment  come  ?  " 
"Yes." 

She  kisses  his  lips  ;  he  kisses  hers ;  they  solemnly  bless 
each  .other.  The  spare  hand  does  not  tremble  as  he  releases 
it;  nothing  worse  than  a  sweet,  bright  constancy  is  in  the 
patient  face.  She  goes  next  before  him — is  gone  ;  the  knit- 
ting-women count  Twenty-Two. 

"  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  life,  said  the  Lord  ;  he 
that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live : 
and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me  shall  neve?  die." 

The  murmuring  of  many  voices,  the  upturning  of  many 
faces,  the  pressing  on  of  many  footsteps  in  the  outskirts  of 
the  crowd,  so  that  it  swells  forward  in  a  mass,  like  one  great 
heave  of  water,  all  flashes  away.  Twenty-Three. 


They  said  of  him,  about  the  city  that  night,  that  it  was  the 
peacefullest  man's  face  ever  beheld  there.  Many  added  that 
he  looked  sublime  and  prophetic. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  sufferers  by  the  same  axe — a 
woman — had  asked  at  the  foot  of  the  same  scaffold,  not  long 
before,  to  be  allowed  to  write  down  the  thoughts  that  were 
inspiring  her.  If  he  had  given  any  utterance  to  his,  and  they 
were  prophetic,  they  would  have  been  these : 

"  I  see  Barsad,  and  Cly,  Defarge,  The  Vengeance,  the 
Juryman,  the  Judge,  long  ranks  of  the  new  oppressors  who 
have  risen  on  the  destruction  of  the  old,  perishing  by  this 
retributive  instrument,  before  it  shall  cease  out  of  its  present 
use.  I  see  a  beautiful  city  and  a  brilliant  people  rising  from 
this  abyss,  and,  in  their  struggles  to  be  truly  free,  in  their 
triumphs  and  defeats,  through  long  long  years  to  come,  I  see 
the  evil  of  this  time  and  of  the  previous  time  of  which  this  is 
the  natural  birth,  gradually  making  expiation  for  itself  and 
wearing  out. 

"  I  see  the  lives  for  which  I  lay  down  my  life,  peaceful, 
useful,  prosperous  and  happy,  in  that  England  which  I  shall 
see  no  more.  I  see  Her  with  a  child  upon  her  bosom,  who 
bears  my  name.  I  see  her  father,  aged  and  bent,  but  other- 
wise restored,  and  faithful  to  all  men  in  his  healing  office,  and 
at  peace.  I  see  the  good  old  man,  so  long  their  friend,  in  ten 
years'  time  enriching  them  with  all  he  has,  and  passing  tran- 
quilly to  his  reward. 

I  see  that  I  hold  a  sanctuary  in  their  heart,  r^nd  in  the 


352 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


hearts  of  their  descendants,  generations  hence.  I  see  her, 
an  old  woman,  weeping  for  me  on  the  anniversary  of  this  day. 
I  see  her  and  her  husband,  their  course  done,  lying  side  by 
side  in  their  last  earthly  bed,  and  I  know  that  each  was  not 
more  honored  and  held  sacred  in  the  other's  soul,  than  I  was 
in  the  souls  of  both. 

"  I  see  that  child  who  lay  upon  her  boson  and  who  bore 
my  name,  a  man  winning  his  way  up  in  that  path  of  life  which 
once  was  mine.  I  see  him  winning  it  so  well,  that  my  name 
is  made  illustrious  there  by  the  light  of  his.  I  see  the  blots  I 
threw  upon  it,  faded  away.  I  see  him,  foremost  of  just  judges 
and  honored  men,  bringing  a  boy  of  my  name,  with  a  fore- 
head that  I  know  and  golden  hair,  to  this  place — then  fair  to 
look  upon,  with  not  a  trace  of  this  day's  disfigurement — and 
I  hear  him  tell  the  child  my  story,  with  a  tender  and  a  falter- 
^    ing  voice. 

"  It  is  a  far,  far  better  thing  that  I  do,  than  I  have  ever 
done ;  it  is  a  far,  far  better  rest  that  I  go  to,  than  I  have  evei 
known.'' 


/ 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 

ILLUSTRATIVE  OF 

EVERY-DAY  LIFE  AND   EVERY-DAY  PEOPLE. 


U53) 


PREFACE. 


The  whole  of  these  Sketches  were  written  and  published^ 
one  by  one,  when  I  was  a  very  young  man.  They  were  col 
lected  and  republished  while  I  was  still  a  very  young  man, 
and  sent  into  the  world  with  all  their  imperfections  (a  good 
many)  on  their  heads. 

They  comprise  my  first  attempts  at  authorship — with  the 
exception  of  certain  tragedies  achieved  at  the  mature  age  of 
eight  or  ten,  and  represented  with  great  applause  to  overflow- 
ing nurseries.  I  am  conscious  of  their  often  being  extremely 
crude  and  ill-considered,  and  bearing  obvious  marks  of  haste 
and  inexperience  ;  particularly  in  that  section  of  the  present 
volume  which  is  comprised  under  the  general  head  of  Tales. 

But  as  this  collection  is  not  originated  now,  and  was  very 
leniently  and  favorably  received  when  it  was  first  made,  I  . 
have  not  felt  it  right  either  to  remodel  or  expunge,  beyond  a 
few  words  and  phrases  here  and  there. 


J55> 


SKETCHES   BY  BOZ. 


OUR  PARISH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  BEADLE.      THE  PARISH  ENGINE.      THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

How  much  is  conveyed  in  those  two  short  words  — "  The 
Parish  !  "  And  with  how  many  tales  of  distress  and  misery, 
of  broken  fortune  and  ruined  hopes,  too  often  of  unrelieved 
wretchedness  and  successful  knavery,  are  they  associated  !  A 
poor  man,  with  small  earnings  and  a  large  family,  just  man- 
ages to  live  on  from  hand  to  mouth,  and  to  procure  food  from 
day  to  day ;  he  has  barely  sufficient  to  satisfy  the  present 
cravings  of  nature,  and  can  take  no  heed  of  the  future.  His 
taxes  are  in  arrear,  quarter-day  passes  by,  another  quarter-day 
arrives  :  he  can  procure  no  more  quarter  for  himself,  and  is 
summoned  by — the  parish.  His  goods  are  distrained,  his 
children  are  crying  with  cold  and  hunger,  and  the  very  bed  on 
which  his  sick  wife  is  lying,  is  dragged  from  beneath  her. 
What  can  he  do  ?  To  whom  is  he  to  apply  for  relief  ?  To 
private  charity  ?  To  benevolent  individuals  ?  Certainly  not — 
there  is  his  parish.  There  are  the  parish  vestry,  the  parish 
infirmary,  the  parish  surgeon,  the  parish  officers,  the  parish 
beadle.  Excellent  institutions,  and  gentle,  kind-hearted  men. 
The  woman  dies — she  is  buried  by  the  parish.  The  children 
have  no  protector — they  are  taken  care  of  by  the  parish.  The 
man  first  neglects,  and  afterwards  cannot  obtain,  work — he  is 
relieved  by  the  parish ;  and  when  distress  and  drunkenness 

(357) 


3S8 


SKETCHES  B  V  BOZ, 


have  done  their  w  ork  upon  him,  he  is  maintained,  a  harmless, 
babbling  idiot,  in  the  parish  asylum. 

The  parish  beadle  is  one  of  the  most,  perhaps  //le  most, 
important  member  of  the  local  administration.  He  is  not  so 
well  off  as  the  church  wardens,  certainly,  nor  is  he  so  learned 
as  the  vestry  clerk,  nor  does  he  order  things  quite  so  mud) 
his  own  way  as  either  of  them.  But  his  power  is  very  great 
notwithstanding ;  and  the  dignity  of  his  office  is  never  im 
paired  by  the  absence  of  efforts  on  his  part  to  maintain  iL 
The  beadle  of  our  parish  is  a  splendid  fellow.  It  is  quite 
delightful  to  hear  him  as  he  explains  the  state  of  the  existing 
poor  laws  to  the  deaf  old  women  in  the  board-room  passage 
on  business  nights  ;  and  to  hear  what  he  said  to  the  senior 
church  warden,  and  what  the  senior  church  warden  said  to 
him  ;  and  what  "  we  (the  beadle  and  the  other  gentlemen) 
came  to  the  determination  of  doing.  A  miserable-looking 
woman  is  called  into  the  board-room,  and  represents  a  case  of 
extreme  destitution,  affecting  herself — a  widow  with  six  small 
children.  "  Where  do  you  live  ?  "  inquires  one  of  the  overseers. 
"  I  rents  a  two-pair  back,  gentlemen,  at  Mrs.  Brown's,  Num- 
ber 3,  Little  King  William's-alley,  which  has  lived  there  this 
fifteen  year,  and  knows  me  to  be  very  hard-working  and  in- 
dustrious, and  when  my  poor  husband  was  alive,  gentlemen, 
as  died  in  the  hospital  " — "  Well,  well,"  interrupts  the  over- 
seer, taking  a  note  of  the  address,  "  I'll  send  Simmons,  the 
beadle,  to-morrow  morning,  to  ascertain  whether  your  story  is 
correct,  and  if  so,  I  suppose  you  must  have  an  order  into  the 
House — Simmons,  go  to  this  woman's  the  first  thing  to-mor- 
row morning,  will  you.''"  Simmons  bows  assent,  and  ushers 
the  woman  out.  Her  previous  admiration  of  "  the  board  " 
(who  all  sit  behind  great  books,  and  with  their  hats  on)  fades 
into  nothing  before  her  respect  for  her  lace-trimmed  conduc- 
tor ;  and  her  account  of  what  has  passed  inside  increases — if 
that  be  possible — the  marks  of  respect,  shown  by  the  assem- 
bled crowd,  to  that  solemn  functionary.  As  to  taking  out  a 
summons,  it's  quite  a  hopeless  case  if  Simmons  attends  it,  on 
behalf  of  the  parish.  He  knows  all  the  titles  of  the  Lord 
Mayor  by  heart ;  states  the  case  without  a  single  stammer  3 
and  it  is  even  reported  that  on  one  occasion  he  ventured  to 
make  a  joke,  which  the  Lord  Mayor's  head  footman  (who  hap- 
pened to  be  present)  afterwards  told  an  intimate  friend,  confi« 
dentially,  was  almost  equal  to  one  of  Mr.  Hobler's. 

See  him  again  on  Sunday  in  his  state  coat  and  cocked  hat, 


THE  BEADLE,  ETC, 


359 


inth  a  large-headed  staff  for  show  in  his  left  hand,  and  a  small 
cane  for  use  in  his  right.  How  pompously  he  marshals  the 
children  into  their  places  !  and  how  demurely  the  little  urchins 
look  at  him  askance  as  he  surveys  them  when  they  are  all 
seated,  with  a  glare  of  the  eye  peculiar  to  beadles  !  The 
church  wardens  and  overseers  being  duly  installed  in  their 
curtained  pews,  he  seats  himself  on  a  mahogany  bracket, 
erected  expressly  for  him  at  the  top  of  the  aisle,  and  divides 
his  attention  between  his  prayer-book  and  the  boys.  Sud* 
denly,  just  at  the  commencement  of  the  communion  service, 
when  the  whole  congregation  is  hushed  into  a  profound 
silence,  broken  only  by  the  voice  of  the  officiating  clergyman, 
a  penny  is  heard  to  ring  on  the  stone  floor  of  the  aisle  with 
astounding  clearness.  Observe  the  generalship  of  the  beadle. 
His  involuntary  look  of  horror  is  instantly  changed  into  one 
of  perfect  indifference,  as  if  he  were  the  only  person  present 
who  had  not  heard  the  noise.  The  artifice  succeeds.  After 
putting  forth  his  right  leg  now  and  then,  as  a  feeler,  the  victim 
who  dropped  the  money  ventures  to  make  one  or  two  distinct 
dives  after  it;  and  the  beadle,  gliding  softly  round,  salutes  his 
little  round  head,  when  it  again  appears  above  the  seat,  with 
divers  double  knocks,  administered  with  the  cane  before 
noticed,  to  the  intense  delight  of  three  young  men  in  an  adja- 
cent pew,  who  cough  violently  at  intervals  until  the  conclusion 
of  the  sermon. 

Such  are  a  few  traits  of  the  importance  and  gravity  of  a 
parish  beadle — a  gravity  which  has  never  been  disturbed  in 
any  case  that  has  come  under  our  observation,  except  when 
the  services  of  that  particularly  useful  machine,  a  parish  fire 
engine,  are  required  :  then  indeed  all  is  bustle.  Two  little 
boys  run  to  the  beadle  as  fast  as  their  legs  will  carry  them,  and 
report  from  their  own  personal  observation  that  some  neigh- 
boring chimney  is  on  fire  ;  the  engine  is  hastily  got  out,  and  a 
plentiful  supply  of  boys  being  obtained,  and  harnessed  to  it 
with  ropes,  away  they  rattle  over  the  pavement,  the  beadle 
running — we  do  not  exaggerate — running  at  the  side,  until 
they  arrive  at  some  house,  smelling  strongly  of  sSot,  at  the 
door  of  which  the  beadle  knocks  with  considerable  gravity 
for  half  an  hour.  No  attention  being  paid  to  these  manual 
applications,  and  the  turn-cock  having  turned  on  the  water, 
the  engine  turns  off  amidst  the  shouts  of  the  boys  ;  it  pulls  up 
once  more  at  the  workhouse,  and  the  beadle  "  pulls  up  "  the 
unfortunate  householder  next  day,  for  the  amount  of  his  legal 
16 


36o 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


reward.  We  never  saw  a  parish  engine  at  a  regular  fire  but 
once.  It  came  up  in  gallant  style — three  miles  and  a  half  an 
hour,  at  least ;  there  was  a  capital  supply  of  water,  and  it  was 
first  on  the  spot.  Bang  went  the  pumps — the  people  cheered 
• — the  beadle  perspired  profusely ;  but  it  was  unfortunately 
discovered,  just  as  they  were  going  to  put  the  fire  out,  that 
nobody  understood  the  process  by  which  the  engine  was  filled 
with  water  ;  and  that  eighteen  boys,  and  a  man,  had  exhausted 
themselves  in  pumping  for  twenty  minutes,  without  producing 
the  slightest  effect ! 

The  personages  next  in  importance  to  the  beadle,  are  the 
master  of  the  workhouse  and  the  parish  schoolmaster.  The 
vestry-clerk,  as  everybody  knows,  is  a  short,  pudgy  little  man, 
in  black,  with  a  thick  gold  watch-chain  of  considerable  length, 
terminating  in  two  large  seals  and  a  key.  He  is  an  attorney, 
and  generally  in  a  bustle ;  at  no  time  more  so,  than  when  he 
is  hurr}dng  to  some  parochial  meeting,  with  his  gloves  crum- 
pled up  in  one  hand,  and  a  large  red  book  under  the  othei 
arm.  As  to  the  churchwardens  and  overseers,  we  exclude 
them  altogether,  because  all  we  know  of  them  is,  that  they 
are  usually  respectable  tradesmen,  who  wear  hats  with  brims 
inclined  to  flatness,  and  who  occasionally  testify  in  gilt  letters 
on  a  blue  ground,  in  some  conspicuous  part  of  the  church,  to 
the  important  fact  of  a  gallery  having  been  enlarged  and  beau- 
tified, or  an  organ  rebuilt. 

The  master  of  the  workhouse  is  not,  in  our  parish — nor  is 
he  usually  in  any  other — one  of  that  class  of  men  the  better 
part  of  whose  existence  has  passed  away,  and  who  drag  out 
the  remainder  in  some  inferior  situation,  with  just  enough 
thought  of  the  past,  to  feel  degraded  by,  and  discontented 
with,  the  present.  We  are  unable  to  guess  precisely  to  our 
own  satisfaction  what  station  the  man  can  have  occupied  be- 
fore ;  we  should  think  he  had  been  an  inferior  sort  of  attor- 
ney's  clerk,  or  else  the  master  of  a  national  school — whatever 
he  was,  it  is  clear  his  present  position  is  a  change  for  the  bet- 
ter. His  income  is  small  certainly,  as  the  rusty  black  coat 
and  threadbare  velvet  collar  demonstrate  ;  but  then  he  lives 
free  of  house-rent,  has  a  limited  allowance  of  coals  and  can- 
dles, and  an  almost  unlimited  allowance  of  authority  in  his 
petty  kingdom.  He  is  a  tall,  thin,  bony  man  ;  always  wears 
shoes  and  black  cotton  stockings  with  his  surtout ;  and  eyes 
you,  as  you  pass  his  parlor-window,  as  if  he  wished  you  were 
a  pauper,  just  to  give  you  a  specimen  of  his  power.    He  is  an 


THE  BEADLE,  ETC. 


36  r 


'  admirable  specimen  of  a  small  tyrant :  morose,  brutish,  and 
ill-tempered  ;  bullying  to  his  inferiors,  cringing  to  his  supe- 
riors, and  jealous  of  the  influence  and  authorit)^  of  the  beadle. 

Our  schoolmaster  is  just  the  very  reverse  of  this  amiable 
official.  He  has  been  one  of  those  men  one  occasionally 
hears  of,  on  whom  misfortune  seems  to  have  set  her  mark ; 
nothing  he  ever  did,  or  was  concerned  in,  appears  to  Rave 
prospered.  A  rich  old  relation  who  had  brought  him  up,  and 
openly  announced  his  intention  of  providing  for  him,  left  him 
10,000/.  in  his  will,  and  revoked  the  bequest  in  a  codicil.  Thus 
unexpectedly  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  providing  for  himself, 
he  procured  a  situation  in  a  public  office.  The  young  clerks 
below  him,  died  off  as  if  there  were  a  plague  among  them ; 
but  the  old  fellows  over  his  head,  for  the  reversion  of  whose 
places  he  was  anxiously  waiting,  lived  on  and  on,  as  if  they 
were  immortal.  He  speculated  and  lost.  He  speculated 
again  and  won^but  never  got  his  money.  His  talents  were 
great ;  his  disposition,  easy,  generous  and  liberal.  His 
friends  profited  by  the  one,  and  abused  the  other.  Loss  suc- 
ceeded loss  ;  misfortune  crowded  on  misfortune  ;  each  suc- 
cessive day  brought  him  nearer  the  verge  of  hopeless  penury, 
and  the  quondam  friends  who  had  been  warmest  in  their  pro- 
fessions, grew  strangely  cold  and  indifferent.  He  had  chil- 
dren whom  he  loved,  and  a  wife  on  whom  he  doted.  The 
•  former  turned  their  backs  on  him ;  the  latter  died  broken- 
hearted. He  went  with  the  stream — it  had  ever  been  his  fail- 
ing, and  he  had  not  courage  sufficient  to  bear  up  against  so 
many  shocks — he  had  never  cared  for  himself,  and  the  only 
being  who  had  cared  for  him,  in  his  poverty  and  distress,  was 
spared  to  him  no  longer.  It  was  at  this  period  that  he  ap- 
plied for  parochial  relief.  Some  kind-hearted  man  who  had 
known  him  in  happier  times,  chanced  to  be  churchwarden 
that  year,  and  through  his  interest  he  was  appointed  to  his 
present  situation. 

He  is  an  old  man  now.  Of  the  many  who  once  crowded 
round  him  in  all  the  hollow  friendship  of  boon-companionship, 
some  have  died,  some  have  fallen  like  himself,  some  have 
prospered — all  have  forgotten  him.  Time  and  misfortune 
have  mercifully  been  permitted  to  impair  his  memory,  and 
use  has  habituated  him  to  his  present  condition.  Meek,  un- 
complaining, and  zealous  in  the  discharge  of  his  duties,  he 
has  been  allowed  to  hold,  his  situation  long  beyond  the  usual 
period  ;  and  he  will  no  doubt  continue  to  hold  it,  until  infirm- 


362 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


ity  renders  him  incapable,  or  death  releases  him.  As  the 
gray-headed  old  man  feebly  paces  up  and  down  the  sunny 
side  of  the  littie  court-yard  between  school  hours,  it  would  be 
difficult,  indeed,  for  the  most  intimate  of  his  former  friends  to 
recognize  their  once  gay  and  happy  associate,  in  the  person 
of  the  Pauper  Schoolmaster. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  CURATE.     THE  OLD  LADY.     THE  HALF-PAY  CAPTAIN. 

We  commenced  our  last  chapter  with  the  beadle  of  oul 
parish,  because  we  are  deeply  sensible  of  the  importance  and 
dignity  of  his  office.  We  will  begin  the  present  with  the  cler- 
gyman. Our  curate  is  a  young  gentleman  of  such  prepossess- 
ing appearance,  and  fascinating  manners,  that  within  one 
month  after  his  first  appearance  in  the  parish,  half  the  young 
lady  inhabitants  were  melancholy  with  religion,  and  the  other 
half,  desponding  with  love.  Never  were  so  many  young  ladies 
seen  in  our  parish-church  on  Sunday  before ;  and  never  had 
the  little  round  angels'  faces  on  Mr.  Tomkins's  monument  in 
the  side  aisle,  beheld  such  devotion  on  earth  as  they  all  ex- 
hibited. He  was  about  five-and-twenty  when  he  first  came 
to  astonish  the  parishioners.  He  parted  his  hair  on  the  centre 
of  his  forehead  in  the  form  of  a  Norman  arch,  wore  a  brilliant 
of  the  first  water  on  the  fourth  finger  of  his  left  hand  (which 
he  always  applied  to  his  left  cheek  when  he  read  prayers), 
and  had  a  deep  sepulchral  voice  of  unusual  solemnity.  Innu- 
merable were  the  calls  made  by  prudent  mammas  on  our  new 
curate,  and  innumerable  the  invitations  with  which  he  was  as- 
sailed, and  which,  to  do  him  justice,  he  readily  accepted.  If 
his  manner  in  the  pulpit  had  created  an  impression  in  his 
favor,  the  sensation  was  increased  tenfold,  by  his  appearance 
in  private  circles.  Pews  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  pul 
pit  or  reading-desk  rose  in  value  ;  sittings  in  the  centre  aisle 
were  at  a  premium  :  an  inch  of  room  in  the  front  row  of  the 
gallery  could  not  be  procured  for  lov^  or  money  \  and  some 
people  even  went  so  far  as  to  assert,  that  the  three  •Miss 
Browns,  who  had  an  obscure  family  pew  just  behind  the 


THE  CURATE,  ETC. 


363 


churchwardens \  were  detected,  one  Sunday,  in  the  free  seats 
by  the  communion  table,  actually  lying  in  wait  for  the  curate 
as  he  passed  to  the  vestry  !  He  began  to,  preach  extempore 
sermons,  "and  even  grave  papas  caught  the  infection.  He  got 
out  of  bed  at  half-past  twelve  o'clock  one  winter's  night,  to 
half-baptize  a  washerwoman's  child  in  a  slop-basin,  and  the 
gratitude  of  the  parishioners  knew  no  bounds  —  the  very 
churchwardens  grew  generous,  and  insisted  on  the  parish  de- 
fraying the  expense  of  the  watch-box  on  wheels,  which  the 
new  curate  had  ordered  for  himself,  to  perform  the  funeral 
service  in  wet  weather.  He  sent  three  pints  of  gruel  and  a 
quarter  of  a  pound  of  tea  to  a  poor  woman  who  had  been 
brought  to  bed  of  four  small  children,  all  at  once — the  parish 
were  charmed.  He  got  up  a  subscription  for  her — the  woman's 
fortune  was  made.  He  spoke  for  one  hour  and  twenty-five 
minutes,  at  an  anti-slavery  meeting  at  the  Goat  and  Boots — ■ 
the  enthusiasm  was  at  its  height.  A  proposal  was  set  on  foot 
for  presenting  the  curate  with  a  piece  of  plate,  as  a  mark  of 
esteem  for  his  valuable  services  rendered  to  the  parish.  The 
list  of  subscriptions  was  filled  up  in  no  time  ;  the  contest  was, 
not  who  should  escape  the  contribution,  but  who  should  be 
the  foremost  to  subscribe.  A  splendid  silver  inkstand  was 
made,  and  engraved  with  an  appropriate  inscription  ;  the 
curate  was  invited  to  a  public  breakfast,  at  the  before-men- 
tioned Goat  and  Boots  ;  the  inkstand  was  presented  in  a  neat 
speech  by  Mr.  Gubbins,  the  ex-churchwarden,  and  acknowl- 
edged by  the  curate  in  terms  which  drew  tears  into  the  eyes 
of  all  present — the  very  waiters  were  melted. 

One  would  have  supposed  that,  by  this  time,  the  theme  of  uni- 
versal admiration  was  lifted  to  the  very  pinnacle  of  popularity. 
No  such  thing.  The  curate  began  to  cough  ;  four  fits  of 
coughing  one  morning  between  the  Litany  and  the  Epistle, 
and  five  in  the  afternoon  service.  Here  was  a  discovery — the 
curate  was  consumptive.  How  interestingly  melancholy  !  If 
the  young  ladies  were  energetic  before,  their  sympathy  and 
solicitude  now  knew  no  bounds.  Such  a  man  as  the  curate — 
such  a  dear — such  a  perfect  love — to  be  consumptive  !  It 
was  too  much.  Anonymous  presents  of  black-currant  jam. 
and  lozenges,  elastic  waistcoats,  bosom  friends,  and  warm 
stockings,  poured  in  upon  the  curate  until  he  was  as  com- 
pletely fitted  out,  with  winter  clothing,  as  if  he  were  on  the 
verge  of  an  expedition  to  the  North  Pole  ;  verbal  bulletins  of 
the  state  of  his  health  were  circulated  throughout  the  parish 


364 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


half-a-dozen  times  a  day ;  and  the  curate  was  in  the  very 
zenith  of  his  popularity. 

About  this  peripd,  a  change  came  over  the  spirit  of  the 
parish.  A  very  quiet,  respectable,  dozing  old  gentleman, 
who  had  officiated  in  our  chapel-of-ease  for  twelve  years 
previously,  died  one  fine  morning,  without  having  given  any 
notice  whatever  of  his  intention.  The  circumstance  gave 
rise  to  counter-sensation  the  first ;  and  the  arrival  of  his  suc- 
cessor occasioned  counter-sensation  the  second.  He  was  a 
pale,  thin,  cadaverous  man,  with  large  black  eyes,  and  long 
straggling  black  hair  :  his  dress  was  slovenly  in  the  extreme, 
his  manner  ungainly,  his  doctrines  startling  ;  in  short,  he  was 
in  every  respect  the  antipodes  of  the  curate.  Crowds  of  our 
female  parishioners  flocked  to  hear  him  ;  at  first,  because  he 
was  so  odd-looking,  then  because  his  face  was  so  expressive, 
then  because  he  preached  so  well ;  and  at  last,  because  they 
really  thought  that,  after  all,  there  was  something  about  him 
which  it  was  quite  impossible  to  describe.  As  to  the  curate, 
he  was  all  very  well ;  but  certainly,  after  all,  there  was  no 
denying  that — that — in  short,  the  curate  wasn't  a  novelty,  and 
the  other  clergyman  was.  The  inconstancy  of  public  opinion 
is  proverbial :  the  congregation  migrated  one  by  one.  The 
curate  coughed  till  he  was  black  in  the  face — it  was  in  vain. 
He  respired  with  difficulty  —  it  was  equally  ineffectual  in 
awakening  sympathy.  Seats  are  once  again  to  be  had  in  any 
part  of  our  parish-church,  and  the  chapel-of-ease  is  going  to 
be  enlarged,  as  it  is  crowded  to  suffocation  every  Sunday  ! 

The  best  known  and  most  respected  among  our  parish- 
ioners, is  an  old  lady,  who  resided  in  our  parish  long  before 
our  name  was  registered  in  the  list  of  baptisms.  Our  parish 
is  a  suburban  one,  and  the  old  lady  lives  in  a  neat  row  of^ 
houses  in  the  most  airy  and  pleasant  part  of  it.  The  house  is 
her  own  ;  and  it,  and  everything  about  it,  except  the  old  lady 
herself,  who  looks  a  little  older  than  she  did  ten  years  ago,  is 
in  just  the  same  state  as  when  the  old  gentleman  was  living. 
The  little  front  parlor,  which  is  the  old  lady's  ordinary  sitting- 
room,  is  a  perfect  picture  of  quiet  neatness  ;  the  carpet  is 
covered  with  brown  Holland,  the  glass  and  picture-frames  are 
carefully  enveloped  in  yellow  muslin  ;  the  table-covers  are 
never  taken  off,  except  when  the  leaves  are  turpentined  and 
bees'-waxed,  an  operation  which  is  regularly  commenced  every 
other  morning  at  half-past  nine  o'clock — and  the  little  nick- 
nacks  are  always  arranged  in  precisely  the  same  manner.  The 


THE  CURATE,  ETC.  365 

greater  part  of  these  are  presents  from  little  girls  whose  parents 
live  in  the  same  row ;  but  some  of  them,  such  as  the  two  old- 
fashioned  watches  (which  never  keep  the  same  time,  one  being 
always  a  quarter  of  an  hour  too  slow,  and  the  other  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  too  fast),  the  little  picture  of  the  Princess  Charlotte 
and  Prince  Leopold  as  they  appeared  in  the  Royal  Box  at  Drury 
Lane  Theatre,  and  others  of  the  same  class,  have  been  in  the 
old  lady's  possession  for  many  years.  Here  the  old  lady  sits 
with  her  spectacles  on,  busily  engaged  in  needlework — near  the 
window  in  summer  time  ;  and  if  she  sees  you  coming  up  the 
steps,  and  you  happen  to  be  a  favorite,  she  trots  out  to  open 
the  street-door  for  you  before  you  knock,  and  as  you  must  be 
fatigued  after  that  hot  walk,  insists  on  your  swallowing  two 
glasses  of  sherr}"  before  you  exert  yourself  by  talking.  If  you 
call  in  the  evening  you  will  find  her  cheerful,  but  rather  more 
serious  than  usual,  with  an  open  Bible  on  the  table,  before 
her,  of  which  Sarah,"  who  is  just  as  neat  and  methodical  as 
her  mistress,  regularly  reads  two  or  three  chapters  in  the 
parlor  aloud. 

The  old  lady  sees  scarcely  any  company,  except  the  little 
girls  before  noticed,  each  of  whom  has  always  a  regular  fixed 
day  for  a  periodical  tea-drinking  with  her,  to  which  the  child 
looks  forward  as  the  greatest  treat  of  its  existence.  She  sel- 
dom visits  at  a  greater  distance  than  the  next  door  but  one  on 
either  side  ;  and  when  she  drinks  tea  here,  Sarah  runs  out 
first  and  knocks  a  double-knock,  to  prevent  the  possibility  of 
her  Missis's  "  catching  cold  by  having  to  wait  at  the  door. 
She  is  very  scrupulous  in  returning  these  little  invitations,  and 
when  she  asks  Mr.  and  Mrs.  So-and-so,  to  meet  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Somebody-else,  Sarah  and  she  dust  the  urn,  and  the  best 
china  tea-service,  and  the  Pope  Joan  board  ;  and  the  visitors 
are  received  in  the  drawing-room  in  great  state.  She  has  but 
few  relations,  and  they  are  scattered  about  in  different  parts 
of  the  country,  and  she  seldom  sees  them.  She  has  a  son  in 
India,  whom  she  always  describes  to  you  as  a  fine,  handsome 
fellow — so  like  the  profile  of  his  poor  dear  father  over  the 
sideboard,  but  the  old  lady  adds,  with  a  mournful  shake  of 
the  head,  that  he  has  always  been  one  of  her  greatest  trials  , 
and  that  indeed  he  once  almost  broke  her  heart;  but  it 
pleased  God  to  enable  her  to  get  the  better  of  it,  and  she 
would  prefer  your  never  mentioning  the  subject  to  her  again. 
She  has  a  great  number  of  pensioners  ;  and  on  Saturday,  after 
she  comes  back  from  market,  there  is  a  regular  levee  of  old 


366 


men  and  women  in  the  passage,  waiting  for  their  weekly* 
gratuity.  Her  name  always  heads  the  list  of  any  benevolent 
subscriptions,  and  hers  are  always  the  most  liberal  donations 
to  the  Winter  Coal  and  Soup  Distribution  Society.  She  sub- 
scribed twenty  pounds  towards  the  erection  of  an  organ  in  our 
parish  church,  and  was  so  overcome  the  first  Sunday  the 
children  sang  to  it,  that  she  was  obliged  to  be  carried  out  by 
the  pew-opener.  Her  entrance  into  church  on  Sunday  is 
always  the  signal  for  a  little  bustle  in  the  side  aisle,  occasioned 
by  a  general  rise  among  the  poor  people,  who  bow  and  curtsy 
until  the  pew-opener  has  ushered  the  old  lady  into  her  accus- 
tomed seat,  dropped  a  respectful  curtsy,  and  shut  the  door : 
and  the  same  ceremony  is  repeated  on  her  leaving  church, 
when  she  walks  home  with  the  family  next  door  but  one,  and 
talks  about  the  sermon  all  the  way,  invariably  opening  the 
conversation  by  asking  the  youngest  boy  where  the  text  was. 

Thus,  with  the  annual  variation  of  a  trip  to  some  quiet 
place  on  the  sea-coast,  passes  the  old  lady's  life.  It  has 
rolled  on  in  the  same  unvarying  and  benevolent  course  for 
many  years  now,  and  must  at  no  distant  period  be  brought  to 
its  final  close.  She  looks  forward  to  its  termination,  with 
calmness  and  without  apprehension.  She  has  everything  to 
hope  and  nothing  to  fear. 

A  very  different  personage,  but  one  who  has  rendered 
himself  very  conspicuous  in  our  parish,  is  one  of  the  old 
lady's  next-door  neighbors.  He  is  an  old  naval  officer  on  half- 
pay,  and  his  bluff  and  unceremonious  behavior  disturbs  the 
old  lady's  domestic  economy,  not  a  little.  In  the  first  place, 
he  will  smoke  cigars  in  the  front  court,  and  when  he  wants 
something  to  drink  v/ith  them — which  is  by  no  means  an  un- 
common circumstance — he  lifts  up  the  old  lady's  knocker  with 
his  walking-stick,  and  demands  to  have  a  glass  of  table  ale, 
handed  over  the  rails.  In  addition  to  this  cool  proceeding, 
he  is  a  bit  of  a  Jack  of  all  trades,  or  to  use  his  own  words, 
*'  a  regular  Robinson  Crusoe  ; "  and  nothing  delights  him  bet- 
ter than  to  experimentalize  on  the  old  lady's  property.  One 
morning  he  got  up  early,  and  planted  three  or  four  roots  of 
full-grown  marigolds  in  every  bed  of  her  front  garden,  to  the 
inconceivable  astonishment  of  the  old  lady,  who  actually 
thought  when  she  got  up  and  looked  out  of  the  window,  that 
it  was  some  strange  eruption  which  had  come  out  in  the  night. 
Another  time  he  took  to  pieces  the  eight-day  clock  on  the 
front  landing,  under  pretence  of  cleaning  the  works,  which  he 


THE  FOUR  SISTERS. 


put  together  again,  by  some  undiscovered  procesSj  in  so  won- 
derful a  manner,  tiiat  the  large  hand  has  done  nothing  but 
trip  up  the  little  one  ever  since.  Then  he  took  to  breeding 
silk-worms,  which  he  would  bring  in  two  or  three  times  a  day, 
in  little  paper  boxes,  to  show  the  old  la^y,  generally  dropping 
a  worm  or  two  at  every  visit.  The  consequence  was,  that  one 
morning  a  very  stout  silk-worm  was  discovered  in  the  act  of 
walking  up  stairs — prc>bjably  with  the  view  of  inquiring  after 
his  friends,  for,  on  further  inspection,  it  appeared  that  some 
of  his  companions  had  already  found  their  way  to  every  room 
in  the  house.  The  old  lady  went  to  the  seaside  in  despair, 
and  during  her  absence  he  completely  effaced  the  name  from- 
her  brass  door-plate,  in  his  attempts  to  polish  it  with  aqua- 
fortis. 

But  all  this  is  nothing  to  his  seditious  conduct  in  public 
life.  He  attends  every  vestry-meeting  that  is  held ;  always 
opposes  the  constituted  authorities  of  the  parish,  denounces 
the  profligacy  of  the  churchwardens,  contests  legal  points 
against  the  vestry-clerk,  will  make  the  tax-gatherer  call  for 
his  money  till  he  won't  call  any  longer,  and  then  he  sends  it  : 
finds  fault  with  the  sermon  every  Sunday,  says  that  the  organ- 
ist ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,  offers  to  back  himself  for 
any  amount  to  sing  the  psalms  better  than  all  the  children 
put  together,  male  and  female ;  and,  in  short,  conducts  him- 
self in  the  most  turbulent  and  uproarious  manner.  The  worst 
of  it  is,  that  having  a  high  regard  for  the  old  lady,  he  wants 
to  make  her  a  convert  to  his  views,  and  therefore  "walks  into 
her  little  parlor  with  his  newspaper  in  his  hand,  and  talks  vio- 
lent politics  by  the  hour.  He  is  a  charitable,  open-hearted 
old  fellow  at  bottom,  after  all  ;  so,  although  he  puts  the  old 
lady  a  little  out  occasionally,  they  agree  very  well  in  the  main, 
and  she  laughs  as  much  at  each  feat  of  his  handiwork  when 
it  is  all  over,  as  anybody  else. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

THE    FOUR  SISTERS. 


The  row  of  houses  in  which  the  old  lady  and  her  trouble- 
some neighbor  reside,  comprises,  beyond  all  doubt,  a  greater 


368 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


number  (©f  characters  within  its  circumscribed  limits,  than  all 
the  rest  of  the  parish  put  together.  As  we  cannot,  consist- 
ently with  our  present  plan,  however,  extend  the  number  of 
our  parochial  sketches  beyond  six,  it  will  be  better  perhaps, 
to  select  the  most  peculiar,  and  to  introduce  them  at  once 
without  further  prefad?. 

The  four  Miss  Willises,  then,  settled  in  our  parish  thirteen 
years  ago.  It  is  a  melancholy  reflection  that  the  old  adage, 
"  time  and  tide  wait  for  no  man,"  applies  with  equal  force  to 
the  fairer  portion  of  the  creation  ;  and  willingly  would  we 
conceal  the  fact,  that  even  thirteen  years  ago  the  Miss  Willises 
were  far  from  juvenile.  Our  duty  as  faithful  parochial  chroni- 
clers, however,  is  paramount  to  every  other  consideration,  and 
we  are  bound  to  state,  that  thirteen  years  since,  the  authori- 
ties in  matrimonial  cases,  considered  the  youngest  Miss  Willis 
in  a  very  precarious  state,  while  the  eldest  sister  was  posi- 
tively given  over,  as  being  far  beyond  all  human  hope.  Well, 
the  Miss  Willises  took  a  lease  of  the  house  ;  it  was  fresh 
painted  and  papered  from  top  to  bottom  :  the  paint  inside  was 
all  wainscoted,  the  marble  all  cleaned,  the  old  grates  taken 
down,  and  register-stoves,  you  could  see  to  dress  by,  put  up  ; 
four  trees  were  planted  in  the  back  garden,  several  small  bas- 
kets of  gravel  sprinkled  over  the  front  one,  vans  of  elegant 
furniture  arrived,  spring  blinds  were  fitted  to  the  windows, 
carpenters  who  had  been  employed  in  the  various  preparations, 
alterations,  and  repairs,"  made  confidential  statements  to  the 
different  maid-servants  in  the  row,  relative  to  the  magnificent 
scale  on  which  the  Miss  Willises  were  commencing  ;  the  maid- 
servants told  their  "Missises,"  the  Missises  told  their  friends, 
and  vague  rumors  were  circulated  throughout  the  parish,  that 
No.  25,  in  Gordon-place,  had  been  taken  by  four  maiden  ladies 
of  immense  property. 

At  last,  the  Miss  Willises  moved  in  ;  and  then  the  "  call- 
ing "  began.  The  house  was  the  perfection  of  neatness — so 
were  the  four  Miss  Willises.  Every  thing  was  formal,  stiff, 
and  cold — so  were  the  four  Miss  Willises.  Not  a  single  chair 
of  the  whole  set  was  ever  seen  out  of  its  place — not  a  single 
Miss  Willis  of  the  whole  four  was  ever  seen  out  of  hers. 
There  they  always  sat,  in  the  same  places,  doing  precisely  the 
same  things  at  the  same  hour.  The  eldest  Miss  Willis  used 
to  knit,  the  second  to  draw,  the  two  others  to  play  duets  on 
the  piano.  They  seemed  to  have  no  separate  existence,  but 
to  have  made  up  their  minds  just  to  winter  through  life  tO' 


THE  FOUR  SISTERS, 


gether.  They  were  three  long  graces  in  drapery,  with  the 
addition,  hke  a  school-dinner,  of  another  long  grace  afterwards 
— the  three  fates  with  another  Sister — the  Siamese  twins  mul- 
tiplied by  two.  The  eldest  Miss  Willis  grew  bilious — the  four 
Miss  Willises  grew  bilious  immediately.  The  eldest  Miss 
Willis  grew  ill-tempered  and  religious — the  four  Miss  Willises 
were  ill-tempered  and  religious  directly.  Whatever  the  eldest 
did,  the  others  did,  and  whatever  anybody  else  did,  they  all 
disapproved  of  ;  and  thus  they  vegetated — living  in  Polar  har- 
mony among  themselves,  and,  as  they  sometimes  went  out,  or 
saw  company  ^'  in  a  quiet-way  "  at  home,  occasionally  iceing 
the  neighbors.  Three  years  passed  over  in  this  way,  when 
an  unlookecl  for  and  extraordinary  phenomenon  occurred. 
The  Miss  Willises  showed  symptoms  of  summer,  the  frost 
gradually  broke  up;  a  complete  thaw  took  place.  Was  it 
possible  ?  one  of  the  four  Miss  Willises  was  going  to  be  mar- 
ried ! 

Now,  where  on  earth  the  husband  came  from,  by  what 
feelings  the  poor  man  could  have  been  actuated,  or  by  what 
process  of  reasoning  the  four  Miss  Willises  succeeded  in  per- 
suading themselves  that  it  was  possible  for  a  man  to  marry 
one  of  them,  without  marrying  them  all,  are  questions  too 
profound  for  us  to  resolve  :  certain  it  is,  however,  that  the 
visits  of  Mr.  Robinson  (a  gentleman  in  a  public  ofBce,  with  a 
good  salary  and  a  little  property  of  his  own,  beside)  were  re- 
ceived— that  the  four  Miss  Willises  were  courted  in  due  form 
by  the  said  Mr.  Robinson — that  the  neighbors  w^ere  perfectly 
frantic  in  their  anxiety  to  discover  which  of  the  four  Miss 
Willises  was  the  fortunate  fair,  and  that  the  difficulty  they  ex- 
perienced in  solving  the  problem  was  not  at  all  lessened  by 
the  announcement  of  the  eldest  Miss  Willis. — "  We  are  going 
to  iriarry  Mr.  Robinson." 

It  was  very  extraordinary.  They  were  so  completely  identi- 
fied, the  one  with  the  other,  that  the  curiosity  of  the  whole 
row — even  of  the  old  lady  herself — was  roused  almost  beyond 
endurance.  The  subject  was  discussed  at  every  little  card 
table  and  tea-drinking.  The  old  gentleman  of  silkworm 
notoriety  did  not  hesitate  to  express  his  decided  opinion  that 
Mr.  Robinson  was  of  Eastern  descent,  and  contemplated 
marrying  the  whole  family  at  once  ;  and  the  row,  generally, 
shook  their  heads  with  considerable  gravity,  and  declared  the 
business  to  be  very  mysterious.  They  hoped  it  might  ?\\  end 
well ; — it  certainly  had  a  very  singular  appearance,  but  still  if 


370 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


would  be  uncharitable  to  express  any  opinion  without  good 
grounds  to  go  upon,  and  certainly  the  Miss  Willises  were 
quite  old  enough  to  judge  fcfl:  themselves,  and  to  be  sure 
people  ought  to  know  their  own  business  best,  and  so  forth. 

At  last,  one  fine  morning,  at  a  quarter  before  eight  o'clock, 
A.M.,  two  glass-coaches  drove  up  to  the  Miss  Willises'  door, 
at  which  Mr.  Robinson  had  arrived  in  a  cab  ten  minutes 
before,  dressed  in  a  light-blue  coat  and  double-milled  kersey 
pantaloons,  white  neckerchief,  pumps,  and  dress-gloves,  his 
manner  denoting,  as  appeared  from  the  evidence  of  the  house- 
maid at  No.  23,  who  was  sweeping  the  door-steps  at  the  time, 
a  considerable  degree  of  nervous  excitement.  It  was  also 
hastily  reported  on  the  same  testimony,  that  the  cook  who 
opened  the  door,  wore  a  large  white  bow  of  unusual  dimen- 
sions, in  a  much  smarter  head-dress  than  the  regulation  cap 
to  which  the  Miss  Willises  invariably  restricted  the  somewhat 
excursive  tastes  of  female  servants  in  general. 

The  intelligence  spread  rapidly  from  house  to  house.  It 
was  quite  clear  that  the  eventful  morning  had  at  length 
arrived  ;  the  whole  row  stationed  themselves  behind  their  first 
and  second-floor  blinds,  and  waited  the  result  in  breathless 
expectation. 

At  last  the  Miss  Willises'  door  opened  ;  the  door  of  the 
first  glass-coach  did  the  same.  Two  gentlemen,  and  a  pair  of 
ladies  to  correspond — friends  of  the  family,  no  doubt ;  up 
went  the  steps,  bang  went  the  door,  off  went  the  first  glass- 
coach  and  up  came  the  second. 

The  street  door  opened  again  ;  the  excitement  of  the 
whole  row  increased — Mr.  Robinson  and  the  eldest  Miss 
Willis.  I  thought  so,"  said  the  lady  at  No.  19  ;  "I  always 
said  it  was  Miss  Willis  !  " — Well,  I  never  !  "  ejaculated  the 
young  lady  at  No.  18  to  the  young  lady  at  No.  17 — Did  you 
ever,  dear  !  "  responded  the  young  lady  at  No.  17  to  the  young 
lady  at  No.  18.  It's  too  ridiculous  !  "  exclaimed  a  spinster 
of  an  ///^certain  age,  at  No.  16,  joining  in  the  conversation. 
But  who  shall  portray  the  astonishment  of  Gordon-place,  when 
Mr.  Robinson  handed  in  all  the  Miss  Willises,  one  after  the 
other,  and  then  squeezed  himself  into  an  acute  angle  of  the 
glass-coach,  which  forthwith  proceeded  at  a  brisk  pace,  after 
the  other  glass-coach,  which  other  glass-coach  had  itself  pro- 
ceeded, at  a  brisk  pace,  in  the  direction  of  the  parish  church  ! 
Who  shall  depict  the  perplexity  of  the  clergyman,  when  all 
the  Miss  Willises  knelt  down  at  the  communion  table^  and 


THE  FOUR  SISTERS, 


37^ 


repeated  the  responses  incidental  to  the  marriage  service  in 
an  audible  voice — or  who  shall  describe  the  confusion  which 
prevailed,  when — even  after  the  difficulties  thus  occasioned 
had  been  adjusted — all  the  Miss  Willises  went  into  hysterics 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  ceremony,  until  the  sacred  edifice 
resounded  with  their  united  wailings  ! 

As  the  four  sisters  and  Mr.  Robinson  continued  to  occupy 
the  same  house,  after  this  memorable  occasion,  and  as  the 
married  sister,  whoever  she  was,  never  appeared  in  public 
without  the  other  three,  we  are  not  quite  clear  that  the  neigh- 
bors ever  would  have  discovered  the  real  Mrs.  Robinson,  but 
for  a  circumstance  of  the  most  gratifying  description,  which 
will  happen  occasionally  in  the  best  regulated  families.  Three 
quarter-days  elapsed,  and  the  row,  on  whom  a  new  light  ap- 
peared to  have  been  bursting  for  some  time,  began  to  speak 
with  a  sort  of  implied  confidence  on  the  subject,  and  to  wonder 
how  Mrs.  Robinson — the  youngest  Miss  Willis  that  was — got 
on ;  and  servants  might  be  seen  running  up  the  steps,  about 
nine  or  ten  o'clock  every  morning,  with  Missis's  compliments, 
and  wishes  to  know  how  Mrs.  Robinson  finds  herself  this 
morning  ?  "  And  the  answer  always  was,  Mrs.  Robinson's 
compliments,  and  she's  in  very  good  spirits,  and  doesn't  find 
herself  any  worse."  The  piano  was  heard  no  longer,  the 
knitting-needles  were  laid  aside,  drawing  was  neglected,  and 
mantua-making  and  millinery,  on  the  smallest  scale  imagin- 
able, appeared  to  have  become  the  favorite  amusement  of  the 
whole  family.  The  parlor  wasn't  quite  as  tidy  as  it  used  to 
be,  and  if  you  called  in  the  morning,  you  w^ould  see  lying  on 
a  table,  with  an  old  newspaper  carelessly  thrown  over  them, 
two  or  three  particularly  small  caps,  rather  larger  than  if  they 
had  been  made  for  a  moderate-sized  doll,  with  a  small  piece 
of  lace,  in  the  shape  of  a  horse-shoe,  let  in  behind  :  or  per- 
haps a  white  robe,  not  very  large  in  circumference,  but  very 
much  out  of  proportion  in  point  of  length,  with  a  little  tucker 
round  the  top,  and  a  frill  round  the  bottom  ;  and  once  when 
we  called,  we  saw  a  long  white  roller,  with  a  kind  of  blue 
margin  down  each  side,  the  probable  use  of  which,  we  were 
at  a  loss  to  conjecture.  Then  we  fancied  that  Mr.  Dawson, 
the  surgeon,  &c.,  who  displays  a  large  lamp  with  a  different 
color  in  every  pane  of  glass,  at  the  corner  of  the  row,  began 
to  be  knocked  up  at  night  oftener  than  he  used  to  be  ;  and 
once  we  were  very  much  alarmed  by  hearing  a  hackney-coach 
stop  at  Mrs.  Robinson's  door,  at  half-past  two  o'clock  in  the 


372 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


morning,  out  of  which  there  emerged  a  fat  old  woman,  in  a 
cloak  and  nightcap,  with  a  bundle  in  one  hand,  and  a  pair  of 
pattens  in  the  other,  who  looked  as  if  she  had  been  suddenly 
knocked  up  out  of  bed  for  some  very  special  purpose. 

When  we  got  up  in  the  morning  we  saw  that  the  knockei 
was  tied  up  in  an  old  white  kid  glove  ;  and  we,  in  our  inno- 
cence (we  were  in  a  state  of  bachelorship  then),  wondered 
what  on  earth  it  all  meant,  until  we  heard  the  eldest  Miss 
Willis,  in  propria  persond,  say,  with  great  dignity,  in  answer  to 
the  next  inquiry,  "  My  compliments,  and  Mrs.  Robinson's 
doing  as  well  as  can  be  expected,  and  the  little  girl  thrives 
wonderfully.'^  And  then,  in  common  with  the  rest  of  the 
row,  our  curiosity  was  satisfied,  and  we  began  to  wonder  it 
had  never  occurred  to  us  what  the  matter  was,  before. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  ELECTION  FOR  BEADLE. 

A  GREAT  event  has  recently  occurred  in  our  parish.  A 
contest  of  paramount  interest  has  just  terminated  ;  a  parochial 
convulsion  has  taken  place.  It  has  been  succeeded  by  a 
glorious  triumph,  which  the  country — or  at  least  the  parish — ■ 
it  is  all  the  same — will  long  remember.  We  have  had  an 
election ;  an  election  for  beadle.  The  supporters  of  the  old 
beadle  system  have  been  defeated  in  their  stronghold,  and 
the  advocates  of  the  great  new  beadle  principles  have  achieved 
a  proud  victory. 

Our  parish,  which,  like  all  other  parishes,  is  a  little  world 
of  its  own,  has  long  been  divided  into  two  parties,  whose 
contentions,  slumbering  for  a  while,  have  never  failed  to  burst 
forth  with  unabated  vigor,  on  any  occasion  on  which  they 
could  by  possibility  be  renewed.  Watching-rates,  lighting- 
rates,  paving-rates,  sewer's-rates,  church-rates,  poor' s-rates— all 
sorts  of  rates,  have  been  in  their  turns  the  subjects  of  a  grand 
struggle ;  and  as  to  questions  of  patronage,  the  asperity  and 
determination  with  which  they  have  been  contested  is  scarcely 
credible. 

The  leader  of  the  official  party — the  steady  advocate  of 


THE  ELECTION  FOR  BEADLE. 


373 


the  churchwardens,  and. the  unflinching  supporter  of  the  over- 
seers— is  an  old  gentleman  who  lives  in  our  row.  He  owns 
some  half  a  dozen  houses  in  it,  and  always  walks  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  way,  so  that  he  may  be  able  to  take  in  a  view  of 
the  whole  of  his  property  at  once.  He  is  a  tall,  thin,  bony 
man,  with  an  interrogative  nose,  and  little  restless  perking 
eyes,  which  appear  to  have  been  given  him  for  the  sole  pur- 
pose of  peeping  into  other  people's  affairs  with.  He  is  deeply 
impressed  with  the  importance  of  our  parish  business,  and 
prides  himself,  not  a  little,  on  his  style  of  addressing  the  par- 
ishoners  in  vestry  assembled.  His  views  are  rather  confined 
than  extensive  ;  his  principles  more  narrow  than  liberal.  He 
has  been  heard  to  declaim  very  loudly  in  favor  of  the  liberty 
of  the  press,  and  advocates  the  repeal  of  the  stamp  duty  on 
newspapers,  because  the  daily  journals  who  now  have  a  mo- 
nopoly of  the  public,  never  give  verbatim  reports  of  vestry 
meetings.  He  would  not  appear  egotistical  for  the  world,  but 
at  the  same  time  he  must  say,  that  there  are  speeches — that 
celebrated  speech  of  his  own,  on  the  emoluments  of  the  sex- 
ton, and  the  duties  of  the  office,  for  instance — which  might  be 
communicated  to  the  public,  greatly  to  their  improvement  and 
advantage. 

His  great  opponent  in  public  life  is  Captain  Purday,  the 
old  naval  officer  on  half -pay,  to  whom  we  have  already  intro- 
duced our  readers.  The  captain,  being  a  determined  oppo- 
nent of  the  constituted  authorities,  whoever  they  may  chance 
to  be,  and  our  other  friend  being  their  steady  supporter, 
with  an  equal  disregard  of  their  individual  merits,  it  will 
readily  be  supposed,  that  occasions  for  their  coming  into  di- 
rect collision  are  neither  few  nor  far  between.  They  divided 
the  vestry  fourteen  times  on  a  motion  for  heating  the  church 
with  warm  water  instead  of  coals  :  and  made  speeches  about 
liberty  and  expenditure,  and  prodigality  and  hot  water,  which 
threw  the  whole  parish  into  a  state  of  excitement.  Then  the 
captain,  when  he  was  on  the  visiting  committee,  and  his  op- 
ponent overseer,  brought  forward  certain  distinct  and  specific 
charges  relative  to  the  management  of  the  workhouse,  boldly 
expressing  his  total  want  of  confidence  in  the  existing  author- 
ities, and  moved  for  "  a  copy  of  the  recipe  by  which  the  pau- 
pers' soup  was  prepared,  together  with  any  documents  relat- 
ing thereto."  This  the  overseer  steadily  resisted  ;  he  forti- 
fied himself  by  precedent,  appealed  to  the  established  usage, 
and  declined  to  produce  the  papers,  on  the  ground  of  the  in- 


374 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


jury  that  would  be  done  to  the  public*  service^,  if  documents  of 
a  strictly  private  nature,  passing  between  the  master  of  the 
workhouse  and  the  cook,  were  to  be  thus  dragged  to  light  on 
the  motion  of  any  individual  member  of  the  viestry.  The  mo- 
tion was  lost  by  a  majority  of  two  ;  and  then  the  captain,  who 
never  allows  himself  to  be  defeated,  moved  for  a  committee 
of  inquiry  into  the  whole  subject.  The  affair  grew  serious  ; 
the  question  was  discussed  at  meeting  after  meeting,  and  ves- 
try after  vestry  ;  speeches  were  made,  attacks  repudiated,  per- 
sonal defiances  exchanged,  explanations  received,  and  the 
greatest  excitement  prevailed,  until  at  last,  just  as  the  ques- 
tion was  going  to  be  finally  decided,  the  vestry  found  that 
somehow  or  other,  they  had  become  entangled  in  a  point  of 
form,  from  which  it  was  impossible  to  escape  with  propriety. 
So,  the  motion  was  dropped,  and  everybody  looked  extremely 
important,  and  seemed  quite  satisfied  with  the  meritorious 
nature  of  the  whole  proceeding. 

This  was  the  state  of  affairs  in  our  parish  a  week  or  two 
since,  when  Simmons,  the  beadle,  suddenly  died.  The  la- 
mented deceased  had  over-exerted  himself,  a  day  or  two  pre- 
viousl}^,  in  conveying  an  aged  female,  highly  intoxicated,  to 
the  strong  room  of  the  workhouse.  The  excitement  thus  oc- 
casioned, added  to  a  severe  cold,  which  this  indefatigable  offi- 
cer had  caught  in  his  capacity  of  director  of  the  parish  en- 
gine, by  inadvertantly  playing  over  himself  instead  of  a  - fire, 
proved  too  much  for  a  constitution  already  enfeebled  by  age, 
and  the  intelligence  was  conveyed  to  the  Board  one  evening 
that  Simmons  had  died,  and  left  his  respects. 

The  breath  was  scarcely  out  of  the  body  of  the  deceased 
functionary,  when  the  field  was  filled  with  competitors  for  the 
vacant  office,  each  of  whom  rested  his  claims  to  public  sup- 
port, entirely  on  the  number  and  extent  of  his  family,  as  if 
the  office  of  Beadle  were  originally  instituted  as  an  encour- 
agement for  the  propagation  of  the  human  species.  "  Bung 
for  Beadle.  Five  small  children  !  " — Hopkins  for  BeadlCo 
Seven  small  children  1  ! — "  Timkins  for  Beadle.  Nine  small 
children  ! ! !  "  Such  were  the  placards  in  large  black  letters 
on  a  white  ground,  which  were  plentifully  pasted  on  the  walls, 
and  posted  in  the  windows  of  the  principal  shops.  Timkins's 
success  was  considered  certain  :  several  mothers  of  families 
half  promised  their  votes,  and  the  nine  small  children  would 
have  run  over  the  course,  but  for  the  production  of  another 
placard,  announcing  the  appearance  of  a  still  more  meritorious 


THE  ELECTION  FOR  BEADLE. 


375 


candidate.  "  Spruggins  for  Beadle.  Ten  small  children  (two 
of  them  twins),  and  a  wife  !  ! !  "  There  was  no  resisting  this  ; 
ten  small  children  would  have  been  almost  irresistible  in 
themselves,  without  the  twins,  but  the  touching  parenthesis 
about  that  interesting  production  of  nature,  and  the  still  more 
touching  allusion  to  Mrs.  Spruggins,  must  insure  success. 
Spruggins  was  the  favorite  at  once,  and  the  appearance  of  his 
lady,  as  she  went  about  to  solicit  votes  (which  encouraged 
confident  hopes  of  a  still  further  addition  to  the  house  of 
Spruggins  at  no  remote  period),  increased  the  general  prepos- 
session in  his  favor.  The  other  candidates,  Bung  alone  ex- 
cepted, resigned  in  despair.  The  day  of  election  was  fixed  ; 
and  the  canvass  proceeded  with  briskness  and  perseverance 
on  both  sides. 

The  members  of  the  vestry  could  not  be  supposed  to  es- 
cape the  contagious  excitement  inseparable  from  the  occasion. 
The  majority  of  the  lady  inhabitants  of  the  parish  declared  at 
once  for  Spruggins  ;  and  the  quondam  overseer  took  the  same 
side,  on  the  ground  that  men  v/ith  large  families  always  had 
been  elected  to  the  office,  and  that  although  he  must  admit, 
that,  in  other  respects^  Spruggins  was  the  least  qualified  candi- 
date of  the  two,  still  it  was  an  old  practice,  and  he  saw  no  rea- 
son w^hy  an  old  practice  should  be  departed  from.  This  was 
enough  for  the  captain.  He  immediately  sided  with  Bung, 
canvassed  for  him  personally  in  all  directions,  wrote  squibs 
on  Spruggins,  and  got  his  butcher  to  skewer  them  up  on  con- 
spicuous joints  in  his  shop-front ;  frightened  his  neighbor,  the 
old  lady,  into  a  palpitaTtion  of  the  heart,  by  his  awful  denun- 
ciations of  Spruggins's  party ;  and  bounced  in  and  out,  and 
up  and  down,  and  backwards  and  forwards,  until  all  the  sober 
inhabitants  of  the  parish  thought  it  inevitable  that  he  must 
die  of  a  brain  fever,  long  before  the  election  began. 

The  day  of  election  arrived.  It  was  no  longer  an  indi- 
vidual struggle,  but  a  party  contest  between  the  ins  and  outs. 
The  question  was,  whether  the  withering  influence  of  the  over- 
seers, the  domination  of  the  churchwardens,  and  the  blighting 
despotism  of  the  vestry-clerk,  should  be  allowed  to  render  the 
election  of  beadle  a  form — a  nulHty  :  whether  they  should  im- 
pose a  vestry-elected  beadle  on  the  parish,  to  do  their  bidding 
and  forward  their  views,  or  whether  the  parishioners,  fear- 
lessly asserting  their  undoubted  rights,  should  elect  an  inde- 
pendent beadle  of  their  own. 

The  nomination  was  fixed  to  take  place  in  the  vestry,  but 


37^ 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


SO  great  was  the  throng  of  anxious  spectators,  that  it  was 
found  necessary  to  adjourn  to  the  church,  where  the  ceremony 
commenced  with  due  solemnity.  The  appearance  of  the 
churchwardens  and  overseers,  and  the  ex-churchwardens  and 
ex-overseers,  with  Spruggins  in  the  rear,  excited  general  at- 
tention. Spruggins  was  a  little  thin  man,  in  rusty  black,  with 
a  long  pale  face,  and  a  countenance  expressive  of  care  and 
fatigue,  which  might  either  be  attributed  to  the  extent  of  his 
family  or  the  anxiety  of  his  feelings.  His  opponent  appeared 
in  a  cast-off  coat  of  the  captain's — a  blue  coat  with  bright 
buttons  :  white  trowsers,  and  that  description  of  shoes  famil- 
iarly known  by  the  appellation  of  high-lows."  ^  There  was  a 
serenity  in  the  open  countenance  of  Bung — a  kind  of  moral 
dignity  in  his  confident  air — an  I  wish  you  may  get  it  " 
sort  of  expression  in  his  eye — which  infused  animation  into 
his  supporters,  and  evidently  dispirited  his  opponents. 

The  ex-churchwarden  rose  to  propose  Thomas  Spruggins 
for  beadle.  He  had  known  him  long.  He  had  had  his  eye 
upon  him  closely  for  years  ;  he  had  watched  him  with  twofold 
vigilance  for  months.  (A  parishioner  here  suggested  that 
this  might  be  termed  "  taking  a  double  sight,"  but  the  obser- 
vation was  drowned  in  loud  cries  of  "  Order  !  ")  He  would 
repeat  that  he  had  had  his  eye  upon  him  for  years,  and  this 
he  would  say,  that  a  more  well-conducted,  a  more  well-be- 
haved, a  more  sober,  a  more  quiet  man,  with  a  more  well-reg- 
ulated mind,  he  had  never  met  with.  A  man  with  a  larger 
family  he  had  never  known  (cheers).  The  parish  required  a 
man  who  could  be  depended  on  Hear !  "  from  the  Sprug- 
gins side,  answered  by  ironical  cheers  from  the  Bung  party). 
Such  a  man  he  now  proposed  ("  No,"  "  Yes  ").  He  would 
not  allude  to  individuals  (the  ex-churchwarden  continued,  in 
the  celebrated  negative  style  adopted  by  great  speakers). 
He  would  not  advert  to  a  gentleman  who  had  once  held  a 
high  rank  in  the  service  of  his  majesty;  he  would  not  say, 
that  that  gentleman  was  no  gentleman  ;  he  would  not  assert, 
that  that  man  was  no  man ;  he  would  not  say,  that  he  was  a 
turbulent  parishioner  ;  he  would  not  say,  that  he  had  grossly 
misbehaved  himself,  not  only  on  this,  but  on  all  former  occa- 
sions ;  he  would  not  say,  that  he  was  one  of  those  discoit- 
tented  and  treasonable  spirits,  who  carried  confusion  and  dis- 
order wherever  they  went ;  he  would  not  say,  that  he  harbored 
in  his  heart  envy  and  hatred,  and  malice,  and  all  uncharita- 
bleness.    No !    He  wished  to  have  everything  comfortable 


THE  ELECTION  EOR  BEADLE^ 


377 


and  pleasant,  and  therefore,  he  would  say — nothing  about  him 
(cheers). 

The  captain  replied  in  a  similar  parliamentary  style.  He 
would  not  say,  he  was  astonished  at  the  speech  they  had  just 
heard  ;  he  would  not  say,  he  was  disgusted  (cheers).  He 
would  not  retort  the  epithets  which  had  been  hurled  against 
him  (renewed  cheering)  ;  he  would  not  allude  to  men  once  in 
office,  but  now  happily  out  of  it,  who  had  mismanaged  the 
workhouse,  ground  the  paupers,  diluted  the  beer,  slack-baked 
the  bread,  boned  the  meat,  heightened  the  work,  and  lowered 
the  soup  (tremendous  cheers).  He  would  not  ask  what  such 
men  deserved  (a  voice,  "  Nothing  a-day,  and  find  them- 
selves ! ").  He  would  not  say,  that  one  burst  of  general  in- 
dignation should  drive  them  from  the  parish  they  polluted 
with  their  presence  (**  Give  it  him  ! '").  He  would  not  allude 
to  the  unfortunate  man  who  had  been  proposed — he  would 
not  say,  as  the  vestry's  tool,  but  as  Beadle.  He  would  not 
advert  to  that  individual's  family  ;  he  would  not  say,  that  nine 
children,  twins,  and  a  wife,  were  very  bad  examples  for  pau- 
per imitation  (loud  cheers).  He  would  not  advert  in  detail 
to  the  qualifications  of  Bung.  The  man  stood  before  him, 
and  he  would  not  say  in  his  presence,  what  he  might  be  dis- 
posed to  say  of  him,  if  he  w^ere  absent.  (Here  Mr.  Bung  tel- 
egraphed to  a  friend  near  him,  under  cover  of  his  hat,  by 
contracting  his  left  eye,  and  applying  his  right  thumb  to  the 
tip  of  his  nose.)  It  had  been  objected  to  Bung  that  he  had 
only  five  children  ("  Hear,  hear !  "  from  the  opposition). 
Well :  he  had  yet  to  learn  that  the  legislature  had  affixed  any 
precise  amount  of  infantine  qualification  to  the  office  of  bea- 
dle ;  but  taking  it  for  granted  that  an  extensive  family  were  a 
great  requisite,  he  entreated  them  to  look  to  facts,  and  com- 
pare data^  about  which  there  could  be  no  mistake.  Bung  was 
35  years  of  age.  Spruggins — of  whom  he  wished  to  speak 
with  all  possible  respect — was  50.  Was  it  not  more  than  pos- 
sible— was  it  not  very  probable — that  by  the  time  Bung  at- 
tained the  latter  age,  he  might  see  around  him  a  family,  even ' 
exceeding  in  number  and  extent,  that  to  which  Spruggins  at 
present  laid  claim  (deafening  cheers  and  waving  of  handker- 
chiefs) ?  The  captain  co^ncluded,  amidst  loud  applause,  by 
calling  upon  the  parishioners  to  sound  the  tocsin,  rush  to  the 
poll,  free  themselves  from  dictation,  or  be  slaves  for  ever. 

On  the  following  day  the  polling  began,  and  we  never 
have  had  such  a  bustle  in  our  parish  since  we  got  up  our  fa' 


37S 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ- 


mous  anti-slavery  petition,  wluch  was  such  an  important  one^ 
that  the  House  of  Commons  ordered  it  to  be  printed,  on  the 
motion  of  the  member  for  the  district.  The  captain  engaged 
two  hackney-coaches  and  a  cab  for'  Bung's  people — the  cab 
for  the  drunken  voters,  and  the  two  coaches  for  the  old  la- 
dies, the  greater  portion  of  whom,  owing  to  the  captain's  im- 
petuosity, were  driven  up  to  the  poll  and  home  again,  before 
they  recovered  from  their  flurry  sufficiently  to  know,  with  any 
degree  of  clearness,  what  they  had  been  doing.  The  oppo 
site  party  wholly  neglected  these  precautions,  and  the  conse- 
quence was,  that  a  great  many  ladies  who  were  walking  lei- 
surely up  to  the  church — for  it  was  a  very  hot  day — to  vote 
for  Spruggins,  were  artfully  decoyed  into  the  coaches,  and 
voted  for  Bung.  The  captain's  arguments,  too,  had  produced 
considerable  effect :  the  attempted  influence  of  the  vestry 
produced  a  greater.  .  A  threat  of  exclusive  dealing  was  clearly 
established  against  the  vestry-clerk — a  case  of  heartless  and 
profligate  atrocity.  It  appeared  that  the  delinquent  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  purchasing  six  penn'  orth  of  muffins, 
weekly,  from  an  old  woman  who  rents  a  small  house  in  the 
parish,  and  resides  among  the  original  settlers  ;  on  her  last 
weekly  visit,  a  message  was  conveyed  to  her  through  the  me- 
dium of  the  cook,  couched  in  mysterious  terms,  but  indicating 
with  sufficient  clearness,  that  the  vestry-clerk's  appetite  for 
muffins,  in  future,  depended  entirely  on  her  vote  on  the  bea- 
dleship. This  was  sufficient :  the  stream  had  been  turning 
previously,  and  the  impulse  thus  administered  directed  its 
final  course.  The  Bung  party  ordered  one  shilling's  worth  of 
muffins  weekly  for  the  remainder  of  the  old  woman's  natural 
life ;  the  parishioners  were  loud  in  their  exclamations  ;  and 
the  fate  of  Spruggins  was  sealed. 

It  was  in  vain  that  the  twins  were  exhibited  in  dresses  of 
the  same  pattern,  and  night-caps  to  match,  at  the  church 
door  :  the  boy  in  Mrs.  Spruggins's  right  arm,  and  the  girl  in 
her  left — even  Mrs.  Spruggins  herself  failed  to  be  an  object 
of  sympathy  any  longer.  The  majority  attained  by  Bung  on 
the  gross  poll  was  four  hundred  and  twenty-eight,  and  the 
cause  of  the  parishioners  triumphed. 


THE  BROKER'S  MAN, 


379 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    broker's  man. 

The  excitement  of  the  late  election  has  subsided,  and  our 
parish  being  once  again  restored  to  a  state  of  comparative 
tranquillity,  we  are  enabled  to  devote  our  attention  to  those 
parishioners  who  take  little  share  in  our  party  contests  or  in 
the  turmoil  and  bustle  of  public  life.  And  we  feel  sincere 
pleasure  in  acknowledging  here,  that  in  collecting  materials 
for  this  task  we  have  been  greatly  assisted  by  Mr.  Bung  him- 
self, who  has  imposed  on  us  a  debt  of  obligation  which  we 
fear  we  can  never  repay.  The  life  of  this  gentleman  has 
been  one  of  a  very  chequered  description  :  he  has  undergone 
transitions — ^not  from  grave  to  gay,  for  he  never  was  grave — 
not  from  lively  to  severe,  for  severity  forms  no  part  of  his 
disposition ;  fluctuations  have  been  between  poverty  in  the 
extreme,  and  poverty  modified,  or,  to  use  his  own  emphatic 
language,  between  nothing  to  eat  and  just  half  enough." 
He  is  not,  as  he  forcibly  remarks,  one  of  those  fortunate 
men  who,  if  they  were  to  dive  under  one  side  of  a  barge  stark- 
naked,  would  come  up  on  the  other  with  a  new  suit  of  clothes 
on,  and  a  ticket  for  soup  in  the  waistcoat-pocket  :  "  neither 
is  he  one  of  those,  whose  spirit  has  been  broken  beyond  re- 
demption by  misfortune  and  want.  He  is  just  one  of  the 
careless,  good-for-nothing,  happy  fellows,  who  float,  cork-like, 
on  the  surface,  for  the  world  to  play  at  hockey  with  :  knocked 
here,  and  -  there,  and  everywhere  :  now  to  the  right,  then  to 
the  left,  again  up  in  the  air,  and  anon  to  the  bottom,  but  al- 
ways reappearing  and  bounding  with  the  stream  buoyantly 
and  merrily  along.  Some  few  months  before  he  was  prevailed 
upon  to  stand  a  contested  election  for  the  oflice  of  beadle, 
necessity  attached  him  to  the  service  of  a  broker ;  and  on  the 
opportunities  he  here  acquired  of  ascertaining  the  condition 
of  most  of  the  poorer  inhabitants  of  the  parish,  his  patron, 
the  captain,  first  grounded  his  claims  to  public  support. 
Chance  threw  the  man  in  our  way  a  short  time  since.  We 


38o 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


were,  in  the  first  instance,  attracted  by  his  prepossessing  im- 
pudence at  the  election  ;  we  were  not  surprised,  on  further 
acquaintance,  to  find  him  a  shrewd  knowing  fellow,  with  no 
inconsiderable  power  of  observation  ;  and,  after  conversing 
with  him  a  little,  were  somewhat  struck  (as  we  dare  say  out 
readers  have  frequently  been  in  other  cases)  with  the  power 
some  men  seem  to  have,  not  only  of  sympathizing  with,  but 
to  all  appearance  of  understanding  feelings  to  which  they 
themselv^es  are  entire  strangers.  We  had  been  expressing  to 
the  new  functionary  our  surprise  that  he  should  ever  have 
served  in  the  capacity  to  which  we  have  just  adverted,  when 
we  gradually  led  him  into  one  or  two  professional  anecdotes. 
As  we  are  induced  to  think,  on  reflection,  that  they  will  tell 
better  in  nearly  his  own  words,  than  with  any  attempted  em- 
bellishments of  ours,  we  will  at  once  entitle  them 


MR.  bung's  narrative. 


It's  very  true,  as  you  say,  sir,'^  Mr.  Bung  commenced, 
that  a  broker's  man's  is  not  a  life  to  be  envied  ;  and  in 
course  you  know  as  well  as  I  do,  though  you  don't  say  it, 
that  people  hate  and  scout  'em  because  they're  the  ministers 
of  wretchedness,  like,  to  poor  people.  But  what  could  I  do, 
sir  t  The  thing  was  no  worse  because  I  did  it,  instead  of 
somebody  else  ;  and  if  putting  me  in  possession  of  a  house 
would  put  me  in  possession  of  three  and  sixpence  a  day,  and 
levying  a  distress  on  another  man's  goods  would  relieye  my 
distress  and  that  of  my  family,  it  can't  be  expected  but  what 
I'd  take  the  job  and  go  through  with  it.  I  never  liked  it, 
God  knows  ;  I  always  looked  out  for  something  else,  and  the 
moment  I  got  other  work  to  do,  I  left  it.  If  there  is  anything 
wrong  in  being  the  agent  in  such  matters — not  the  principal, 
mind  you — I'm  sure  the  business,  to  a  beginner  like  I  was,  at 
all  events,  carries  its  own  punishment  along  with  it.  I  wished 
again  and  again  that  the  people  would  only  blow  me  up,  or 
pitch  into  me — that  I  wouldn't  have  minded,  it's  all  in  my 
way ;  but  it's  the  being  shut  up  by  yourself  in  one  room  for 
five  days,  without  so  much  as  an  old  newspaper  to  look  at, 
or  anything  to  see  out  o'  the  winder  but  the  roofs  and  chim- 
neys at  the  back  of  the  house,  or  anything  to  listen  to,  but 
the  ticking,  perhaps,  of  an  old  Dutch  clock,  the  sobbing  of, 
the  missis,  now  and  then,  the  low  talking  of  friends  in  the  next 


THE  BROKER'S  MAN, 


room,  who  speak  in  whispers,  lest  '  the  man '  should  overhear 
them,  or  perhaps  the  occasional  opening  of  the  door,  as  a 
child  peeps  in  to  look  at  you,  and  then  runs  half-frightened 
away — It's  all  this,  that  makes  you  feel  sneaking  somehow^ 
and  ashamed  of  yourself ;  and  then,  if  it's  winter  time,  they  just 
give  you  fire  enough  to  make  you  think  you'd  like  more,  and 
bring  in  your  grub  as  if  they  wished  it  'ud  choke  you — as  I 
dare  say  they  do,  for  the  matter  of  that,  most  heartily.  If 
they're  very  civil,  they  make  you  up  a  bed  in  the  room  at 
night,  and  if  they  don't,  your  master  sends  one  in  for  you  ; 
but  there  you  are,  without  being  washed  or  shaved  all  the 
time,  shunned  by  everybody,  and  spoken  to  by  no  one,  unless 
some  one  comes  in  at  dinner  time,  and  asks  you  whether  you 
want  any  more,  in  a  tone  as  much  as  to  say,  '  I  hope  you 
don't,'  or,  in  the  evening,  to  inquire  whether  you  wouldn't 
rather  have  a  candle,  after  you've  been  sitting  in  the  dark  half 
the  night.  When  I  was  left  in  this  way,  I  used  to  sit,  think, 
think,  thinking,  till  I  felt  as  lonesome  as  a  kitten  in  a  wash- 
house  coj^per  with  the  lid  on  ;  but  T  believe  the  old  broker's 
men  who  are  regularly  trained  to  it,  never  think  at  all.  I 
have  heard  some  on  'em  say,  indeed,  that  they  don't  know 
how ! 

"  I  put  in  a  good  many  distresses  in  my  time  (continued 
Mr.  Bung),  and  in  course  I  wasn't  long  in  finding,  that  some 
people  are  not  as  much  to  be  pitied  as  others  are,  and  that 
people  with  good  incomes  who  get  into  difficulties,  which  they 
keep  patching  up  day  after  day,  and  week  after  week,  get  so 
used  to  these  sort  of  things  in  time,  that  at  last  they  come 
scarcely  to  feel  them  at  all.  I  remember  the  very  first  place 
I  was  put  in  possession  of,  was  a  gentleman's  house  in  this 
parish  here,  that  everybody  would  suppose  couldn't  help  hav- 
ing money  if  he  tried.  I  went  with  old  Fixern,  my  old  master, 
'bout  half  arter  eight  in  the  morning  ;  rang  the  area-bell ; 
servant  in  livery  opened  the  door  :  ^  Governor  at  home  ?  ' — 
^  Yes,  he  is,'  says  the  man  ;  "but  he's  breakfasting  just  now.' 
''Never  mind,'  says  Fixem,  *  just  you  tell  him  there's  a  gen- 
tleman here,  as  wants  to  speak  to  him  partickler.'  So  the 
servant  he  opens  his  eyes,  and  stares  about  him  all  ways — 
looking  for  the  gentleman,  as  it  struck  me,  for  I  don't  think 
anybody  but  a  man  as  was  stone-blind  would  mistake  Fixem 
for  one  ;  and  as  for  me,  I  was  as  seedy  as  a  cheap  cowcumber. 
Hows'ever,  he  turns  round,  and  goes  to  the  breakfast-parlor, 
which  was  a  little  snug  sort  of  room  at  the  end  of  the  passage, 


382 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


and  Fixem  fas  we  always  did  in  that  profession),  without, 
w^aiting  to  be  announced,  walks  in  arter  him,  and  before  the 
servant  could  get  out,  *  Please,  sir,  here's  a  man  as  wants  to 
speak  to  you,'  looks  in  at  the  door  as  familiar  and  pleasant 
as  may  be.  ^  Who  the  devil  are  you,  and  how  dare  you  w-alk 
into  a  gentleman's  house  without  leave  ?  '  says  the  master,  as 
fierce  as  a  bull  in  fits.  '  My  name,'  says  Fixem,  winking  to 
the  master  to  send  the  servant  away,  and  putting  the  warrant 
into  his  hands  folded  up  like  a  note,  ^  My  name's  Smith,' 
says  he,  '  and  I  called  from  Johnson's  about  that  business  of 
Thompson's  ' — *  Oh,'  says  the  other,  quite  down  on  him  di 
rectly,  ^  How  is  Thompson  ? '  says  he  ;  '  Pray  sit  dowm,  Mr. 
Smith  :  John,  leave  the  room.'  Out  went  the  servant ;  and 
the  gentleman  and  Fixem  looked  at  one  another  till  they 
couldn't  look  any  longer,  and  then  they  varied  the  amusements 
by  looking  at  me,  who  had  been  standing  on  the  mat  all  this 
time.  ^  Hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  I  see,'  said  the  gentleman 
at  last.  '  Hundred  and  fifty  pounds,'  said  Fixem,  '  besides 
cost  of  levy,  sheriff's  poundage,  and  all  other  incidental  ex- 
penses,'— ^Um,'  says  the  gentleman,  ^  I  shan't  be  able  to  settle 
this  before  to-morrow^  afternoon.' — '  Very  sorry  ;  but  I  shall 
be  obliged  to  leave  my  man  here  till  then,'  replies  Fixem, 
pretending  to  look  very  miserable  over  it.  ^  That's  very  un- 
fort'nate,'  says  the  gentleman,  'for  I  have  got  a  large  party 
here  to-night,  and  I'm  ruined  if  those  fellows  of  mine  get  an 
inkling  of  the  matter — just  step  here,  Mr.  Smith,'  says  he, 
after  a  short  pause.  So  Fixem  w^ilks  with  him  up  to  the  window, 
and  after  a  good  deal  of  whispering,  and  a  little  chinking  of 
suverins,  and  looking  at  me,  he  comes  back  and  says,  '  Bung, 
you're  a  handy  fellow,  and  very  honest  I  know.  This  gentle- 
man wants  an  assistant  to  clean  the  plate  and  wait  at  table 
to-day,  and  if  you're  not  particularly  engaged,'  says  old 
Fixem,  grinning  like  mad,  and  shoving  a  couple  of  suverins 
into  my  hand,  '  he'll  be  very  glad  to  avail  himself  of  your  ser- 
vices.' Well,  I  laughed,  and  the  gentleman  laughed,  and  we 
all  laughed  ;  and  I  went  home  and  cleaned  myself,  leaving 
Fixem  there,  and  when  I  went  back,  Fixem  went  away,  and  I 
polished  up  the  plate,  and  waited  at  table,  and  gammoned  the 
servants,  and  nobody  had  the  least  idea  I  was  in  possession, 
though  it  very  nearly  came  out  after  all  ;  for  one  of  the  last 
gentlemen  who  remained,  came  down  stairs  into  the  hall 
where  I  was  sitting  pretty  late  at  night,  and  putting  half-a- 
crown  into  my  hand,  says,  '  Here,  my  man,'  says  he,  'run 


THE  BROKER'S  MAN.  .  383 

and  get  me  a  coach,  will  you? '  I  thought  it  was  a  do,  to 
get  me  out  of  the  house,  and  was  just  going  to  say  so,  sulkily 
enough,  when  the  gentleman  (who  was  up  to  everything)  came 
running  down  stairs,  as  if  he  was  in  great  anxiety.  '  Bung,' 
says  he,  pretending  to  be  in  a  consuming  passion.  '  Sir,' 
says  I.  *  Why  the  devil  ain't  you  looking  after  that  plate  t ' 
— '  I  was  just  going  to  send  him  for  a  coach  for  me,'  says  the 
other  gentleman.  '  And  I  was  just  a-going  to  say,'  says  I — = 
*  Anybody  else,  my  dear  fellow/  interrupts  the  master  of  the 
house,  pushing  me  down  the  passage  to  get  out  of  the  way — 
'  anybody  else  ;  but  I  have  put  this  man  in  possession  of  all 
the  plate  and  valuables,  and  I  cannot  allow  him  on  any  con- 
sideration whatever,  to  leave  the  house.  Bung,  you  scoun- 
drel, go  and  count  those  forks  in  the  breakfast-parlor  instantly.' 
You  may  be  sure  I  went  laughing  pretty  hearty  when  I  found 
it  was  all  right.  The  money  was  paid  next  day,  with  the  ad- 
dition of  something  else  for  myself,  and  that  was  the  best  job 
that  I  (and  I  suspect  old  Fixem  too)  ever  got  in  that  line. 

"  But  this  is  the  bright  side  of  the  picture,  sir,  after  all," 
resumed  Mr.  Bung,  laying  aside  the  knowing  look,  and  flash 
air,  with  which  he  had  repeated  the  previous  anecdote — "  and 
I'm  sorry  to  say,  it's  the  side  one  sees  -very,  very  seldom,  in 
comparison  with  the  dark  one.  The  civility  which  money 
will  purchase,  is  rarely  extended  to  those  who  have  none ;  and 
there's  a  consolation  even  in  being  able  to  patch  up  one  diffi- 
culty, to  make  way  for  another,  to  which  very  poor  people  are 
strangers.  I  was  once  put  into  a  house  down  George 's-yard 
— that  little  dirty  court  at  the  back  of  the  gas-works  ;  and  I 
never  shall  forget  the  misery  of  them  people,  dear  me  !  It 
was  a  distress  for  half  a  year's  rent — two  pound  ten  I  think. 
There  was  only  two  rooms  in  the  house,  and  as  there  was  no 
passage,  the  lodgers  up  stairs  always  went  through  the  room 
of  the  people  of  the  house,  as  they  passed  in  and  out;  and 
every  tmie  they  did  so — which,  on  the  average,  was  about 
four  times  every  quarter  of  an  hour — they  blowed  up  quite 
frightful ;  for  their  things  had  been  seized  too,  and  included 
in  the  inventory.  There  was  a  little  piece  of  enclosed  dust  in 
•  front  of  the  house,  with  a  cinder-path  leading  up  to  the  door, 
and  an  open  rain-water  butt  on  one  side.  A  dirty  striped 
curtain,  on  a  \^ry  slack  string,  hung  in  the  window,  and  a 
little  triangular  bit  of  broken  looking:glass  rested  on  the  sill 
inside.  I  suppose  it  was  meant  for  the  people's  use,  but  their 
appearance  was  so  wretched,  and  so  miserable,  that  I'm  cer- 
1? 


3H 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


tain  they  never  could  have  plucked  up  courage  to  look  them« 
selves  in  the  face  a  second  time,  if  they  survived  the  fright  of 
doing  so  once.  There  was  two.^or  three  chairs,  that  might 
have  been  worth,  in  their  best  days,  from  eightpence  to  a 
shilling  a-piece ;  a  small  deal  table,  an  old  corner  cupboard 
with  nothing  in  it,  and  one  of  those  bedsteads  which  turn  up 
half  way,  and  leave  the  bottom  legs  sticking  out  for  you  to 
knock  your  head  against,  or  hang  your  hat  upon  ;  no  bed,  no 
bedding.  There  was  an  old  sack,  by  way  of  rug,  before  the 
fire-place,  and  four  or  five  children  were  grovelling  about, 
among  the  sand  on  the  floor.  The  execution  was  only  put  in, 
to  get  'em  out  of  the  house,  for  there  was  nothing  to  take  to 
pay  the  expenses  ;  and  here  I  stopped  for  three  days,  though 
that  was  a  mere  form  too;  for,  in  course,  I  knew,  and  we 
all  knew,  they  could  never  pay  the  money.  In  one  of  the 
chairs,  by  the  side  of  the  place  where  the  fire  ought  to  have 
been,  was  an  old  'ooman — the  ugliest  and  dirtiest  I  ever 
see — ^who  sat  rocking  herself  backwards  and  forwards,  back- 
wards and  forwards,  without  once  stopping  except  for  an 
instant  now  and  then,  to  clasp  together  the  withered  hands 
w^hich,  with  these  exceptions,  she  kept  constantly  rubbing 
upon  her  knees,  just  raising  and  depressing  her  fingers  con- 
vulsively, in  time  to  the  rocking  of  the  chair.  On  the  other 
side  sat  the  mother  with  an  infant  in  her  arms,  which  cried 
till  it  cried  itself  to  sleep,  and  when  it  woke,  cried  till  it  cried 
itself  olf  again.  The  old  'ooman's  voice  I  never  heard  :  she 
seemed  completely  stupefied  ;  and  as  to  the  mother's,  it  would 
have  been  better  if  she  had  been  so  too,  for  misery  had 
changed  her  to  a  devil.  If  you  had  heard  how  she  cursed  the 
little  naked  children  as  was  rolling  on  the  floor,  and  seen  how 
savagely  she  struck  the  infant  when  it  cried  with  hunger, 
you'd  have  shuddered  as  much  as  I  did.  There  they  remained 
all  the  time :  the  children  ate  a  morsel  of  bread  once  or  twice, 
and  I  gave  'em  best  part  of  the  dinners  my  missis  brought  me, 
but  the  woman  ate  nothing ;  they  never  even  laid  on  the  bed- 
stead, nor  was  the  room  swept  or  cleaned  all  the  time.  The 
neighbors  were  all  too  poor  themselves  to  take  any  notice  of 
'em,  but  from  what  I  could  make  out  from  the  abuse  of  the 
woman  up  stairs,  it  seemed  the  husband  had  been  transported 
a  few  weeks  before.  When  the  time  was  up,  the  landlord 
and  old  Fixem  too,  got  rather  frightened  about  the  family, 
and  so  they  made  a  stir  about  it,  and  had  'em  taken  to  the 
workhouse.    They  sent  the  sick  couch  for  the  old  'ooman, 


THE  BROKER'S  MAN. 


38s 


and  Simmons  took  the  children  away  at  night.  The  old 
'ooman  went  into  the  infirmary,  and  very  soon  died.  The 
children  are  all  in  the  house  to  this  day,  and  very  comforta- 
ble they  are  in  comparison.  As  to  the  mother,  there  was  no 
taming  her  at  all.  She  Tiad  been  a  quiet,  hard-working  woman, 
I  believe,  but  her  misery  had  actually  drove  her  wild  ;  so  after 
she  had  been  sent  to  the  house  of  correction  half-a-dozen 
times,  for  throwing  inkstands  at  the  overseers,  blaspheming 
jhe  churchwardens,  and  smashing  everybody  as  come  near 
her,  she  burst  a  blood-vessel  one  mornin',  and  died  too  ;  and 
a  happy  release  it  was,  both  for  herself  and  the  old  paupers, 
male  and  female,  which  she  used  to  tip  over  in  all  directions, 
as  if  they  were  so  many  skittles  and  she  the  ball. 

Now  this  was  bad  enough,^'  resumed  Mr.  Bung,  taking  a 
half-step  towards  the  door,  as  if  to  intimate  that  he  had  nearly 
concluded.  "  This  was  bad  enough,  but  there  was  a  sort  of 
quiet  misery — if  you  understand  what  I  mean  by  that,  sir — 
about  a  lady  at  one  house  I  was  put  into,  as  touched  me  a 
good  deal  more.  It  doesn't  matter  where  it  was  exactly  : 
indeed,  I'd  rather  not  say,  but  it  was  the  sam.e  sort  o'  job.  I 
went  with  Fixem  in  the  usual  way — there  was  a  year's  rent  in 
arrear  ;  a  very  small  servant-girl  opened  the  door,  and  three 
or  four  fine-looking  little  children  was  in  the  front  parlor  we 
were  shown  into,  which  was  very  clean,  but  very  scantily  fur- 
nished, much  like  the  children  themselves.  '  Bung,'  says 
Fixem  to  me,  in  a  low  voice,  when  we  w^ere  left  alone  for  a 
minute,  ^  I  know  something*  about  this  here  family,  and  my 
opinion  is,  it's  no  go.'  '  Do  you  think  they  can't  settle  \ '  says 
I,  quite  anxiously  ;  for  I  liked  the  looks  of  them  children. 
Fixem  sliook  his  head,  and  was  just  about  to  reply,  when  the 
door  opened  and  in  came  a  lady,  as  white  as  ever  I  see  any 
one  in  my  days,  except  about  the  eyes,  which  were  red  witli 
crying.  She  walked  in,  as  firm  as  I  could  have  done  ;  shut 
the  door  carefully  after  her  and  sat  herself  down  with  a  face 
as  composed  as  if  it  was  made  of  stone.  *  What  is  the  matter, 
gentlemen  ? '  says  she,  in  a  surprising  steady  voice.  '  Is  this 
an  execution?  '  *  It  is,  mum,'  says  Fixem.  The  lady  looked 
at  him  as  steady  as  ever  :  she  didn't  seem  to  have  understood 
him.  '  It  is,  mum,'  says  Fixem  again  ;  *  this  is  my  warrant  of 
distress,  mum,'  says  he,  handing  it  over  as  polite  as  if  it  w^as 
a  newspaper  which  had  been  bespoke  arter  the  next  gentle- 
man. 

The  lady's  lip  trembled  as  she  took  the  printed  paper. 


386 


SKETCHES  B  V  BOZ. 


She  cast  her  eye  over  it,  and  old  Fixem  began  to  explain  the 
form,  but  I  saw  she  w^asn't  reading  it,  plain  enough,  poor  thing. 
^  Oh,  my  God  ! '  says  she,  suddenly  a-bursting  out  crying, 
letting  the  warrant  fall,  and  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands, 
'  Oh,  my  God  !  what  will  become  of  us  !  '  The  noise  she 
made,  brought  in  a  young  lady  of  about  nineteen  or  twenty, 
who,  I  suppose,  had  been  a-listcning  at  the  door,  and  who  had 
got  a  little  boy  in  her  arms  :  she  sat  him  down  in  the  lady's 
lap,  without  speaking,  and  she  hugged  the  poor  little  fellow  to 
her  bosom,  and  cried  over  him,  till  even  old  Fixem  put  on  his 
blue  spectacles  to  hide  the  two  tears,  that  was  a-trickling 
down  one  on  each  side  of  his  dirty  face.  *  Now,  dear  ma,' 
says  the  young  lady,  ^  you  know  how  much  you  have  borne. 
For  all  our  sakes — for  i3a's  sake,'  says  she,  ^  don't  give  way  to 
this  ! ' — ^  No,  no,  I  won't  ! '  says  the  lady,  gathering  herself  up, 
hastily,  and  drying  her  eyes  ;  *  I  am  very  foolish,  but  I'm 
better  now — much  better.'  And  then  she  roused  herself  up, 
went  with  us  into  every  room  while  we  took  the  inventory, 
opened  all  the  drawers  of  her  own  accord,  sorted  the  children's 
little  clothes  to  make  the  work  easier;  and,  except  doing 
everything  in  a  strange  sort  of  hurry,  seemed  as  calm  and 
composed  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  When  we  came  down 
stairs  again,  she  hesitated  a  minute  or  two,  and  at  last  says, 
'  Gentlemen,'  says  she,  *  I  am  afraid  I  have  done  wrong,  and 
perhaps  it  may  bring  you  into  trouble.  I  secreted  just  now,.' 
she  says,  *  the  only  trinket  I  have  left  in  the  world — here  it  is.' 
So  she  lays  down  on  the  table  a  little  miniature  mounted  in 
gold.  *  It's  a  miniature,'  she  says,  '  of  my  poor  dear  father  ! 
I  little  thought  once,  that  I  should  ever  thank  God  for  depriv- 
ing me  of  the  original,  but  I  do,  and  have  done  for  years  back 
most  fervently.  Take  it  away,  sir,'  she  says,  *  it's  a  face  that 
never  turned  from  me  in  sickness  or  distress,  and  I  can  hardly 
bear  to  turn  from  it  now,  when,  God  knows,  I  suffer  both  in 
no  ordinary  degree.'  I  couldn't  say  ^nothing,  but  I  raised  my 
head  from  the  inventory  which  I  was  filling  up,  and  looked  at 
Fixem  ;  the  old  fellow  nodded  to  me  significantly,  so  I  ran  my 
pen  through  the  Mini^  I  had  just  written,  and  left  the  mini- 
ature on  the  table, 

^'  Well,  sir,  to  make  short  of  a  long  story,  I  was  left  in 
possession,  and  in  possession  I  remained ;  and  though  I  was 
an  ignorant  man,  and  the  master  of  the  house  a  clever  one,  I 
saw  what  he  never  did,  but  what  he  w^ould  give  worlds  now 
(if  he  had  'em)  to  have  seen  in  time.    I  saw,  sir,  that  his  wife 


THE  LADIES'  SOCIETIES. 


387 


was  wasting  away,  beneath  cares  of  which  she  never  com- 
plained, and  griefs  she  never  told.  I  saw  that  she  was  dying 
before  his  eyes ;  I  knew  that  one  exertion  from  him  might 
have  saved  her,  but  he  never  made  it.  I  don't  blame  him  : 
I  don't  think  he  could  rouse  himself.  She  had  so  long  antici- 
pated all  his  wishes,  and  acted  for  him,  that  he  was  a  lost 
man  when  left  to  himself.  I  used  to  think  when  I  caught 
sight  of  her,  in  the  clothes  she  used  to  wear,  which  looked 
shabby  even  upon  her,  and  would  have  been  scarcely  decent 
on  any  one  else,  that  if  I  was  a  gentleman  it  would  wring  my 
very  heart  to  see  the  woman  that  was  a  smart  and  merry  girl 
when  I  courted  her,  so  altered  through  her  love  for  me. 
Bitter  cold  and  damp  weather  it  was,  yet,  though  her  dress 
was  thin,  and  her  shoes  none  of  the  best,  during  the  whole 
three  days,  from  morning  to  night,  she  was  out  of  doors  run- 
ning about  to  try  and  raise  the  money.  The  money  was 
raised  and  the  execution  was  paid  out.  The  whole  family 
crowded  into  the  room  where  I  was,  when  the  money  arrived. 
The  father  was  quite  happy  as  the  inconvenience  was  removed 
— I  dare  say  he  didn't  know  how  ;  the  children  looked  merry 
and  cheerful  again  ;  the  eldest  girl  was  bustling  about,  making 
preparations  for  the  first  comfortable  meal  they  had  had  since 
the  distress  was  put  in  j  and  the  mother  looked  pleased  to 
see  them  all  so.  But  if  ever  I  saw  death  in  a  woman's  face, 
I  saw  it  in  hers  that  night. 

I  was  right,  sir,"  continued  Mr.  Bung,  hurriedly  passing 
his  coat-sleeve  over  his  face  ;  "  the  family  grew  more  pros- 
perous, and  good  fortune  arrived.  But  it  was  too  late. 
Those  children  are  motherless  now,  and  their  father  would 
give  up  all  he  has  since  gained — house,  home,  goods,  money : 
all  that  he  has,  or  ever  can  have,  to  restore  the  wife  he  has 
lost," 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  ladies'  societies. 

Our  Parish  is  very  prolific  in  ladies'  charitable  institu- 
tions. In  v/inter,  when  wet  feet  are  common,  and  colds  not 
scarce,  we  have  the  ladies'  soup  distribution  society,  the 


388 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


ladies'  coal  distribution  society,  and  the  ladies'  blanket  dis-^ 
tribution  society ;  in  summer,  when  stone  fruits  flourish  and 
stomach  aches  prevail,  we  have  the  ladies'  dispensary,  and 
the  ladies'  sick  visitation  committee  ;  and  all  the  year  round 
we  have  the  ladies'  child's  examination  society,  the  ladies' 
bible  and  prayer-book  circulation  society,  and  the  ladies' 
childbed-linen  monthly  loan  society.  The  two  latter  are  de- 
cidedly the  most  important ;  whether  they  are  productive  ot 
more  benefit  than  the  rest,  it  is  not  for  us  to  say,  but  we  can 
take  upon  ourselves  to  affirm,  with  the  utmost  solemnity,  that 
they  create  a  greater  stir  and  more  bustle,  than  all  the  others 
put  together. 

We  should  be  disposed  to  affirm,  on  the  first  blush  of  the 
matter,  that  the  bible  and  prayer-book  society  is  not  so  popu- 
lar as  the  childbed-linen  society ;  the  bible  and  prayer-book 
society  has,  however,  considerably  increased  in  importance 
within  the  last  year  or  two,  having  derived  some  adventitious 
aid  from  the  factious  opposition  of  the  child's  examination 
society  ;  which  factious  opposition  originated  in  manner  fol- 
lowing : — When  the  young  curate  was  popular,  and  all  the 
unmarried  ladies  in  the  parish  took  a  serious  turn,  the  charity 
children  all  at  once  became  objects  of  peculiar  and  especial 
interest.  The  three  Miss  Browns  (enthusiastic  admirers  of 
the  curate)  taught,  and  exercised,  and  examined,  and  re-ex- 
amined the  unfortunate  children,  until  the  boys  grew  pale, 
and  the  girls  consumptive  with  study  and  fatigue.  The  three 
Miss  Browns  stood  it  out  very  well,  because  they  relieved 
each  other  ;  but  the  children,  having  no  relief  at  all,  exhibited, 
decided  symptoms  of  weariness  and  care.  The  unthinking 
part  of  the  parishioners  laughed  at  all  this,  but  the  more  re- 
flective portion  of  the  inhabitants  abstained  from  expressing 
any  opinion  on  the  subject  until  that  of  the  curate  had  been 
clearly  ascertained. 

The  opportunity  was  not  long  wanting.  The  curate 
preached  a  charity  sermon  on  behalf  of  the  charity  school, 
and  in  the  charity  sermon  aforesaid,  expatiated  in  glowing 
terms  on  the  praiseworthy  and  indefatigable  exertions  of  cer- 
tain estimable  individuals.  Sobs  were  heard  to  issue  from 
the  three  Miss  Browns'  pew ;  the  pew-opener  of  the  division 
was  seen  to  hurry  down  the  centre  aisle  to  the  vestry  door, 
and  to  return  immediately,  bearing  a  glass  of  water  in  her 
hand.  A  low  moaning  ensued  ;  two  more  pew-openers  rushed 
to  the  spot,  and  the  three  Miss  Browns,  each  supported  by  a 


SOCIETIES. 


pew-opener,  were  led  out  of  the  church,  and  led  in  again  after 
the  lapse  of  five  minutes  with  white  pocket-handkerchiefs  to 
their  eyes,  as  if  they  had  been  attending  a  funeral  in  the 
churchyard  adjoining.  If  any  doubt  had  for  a  moment  ex- 
isted, as  to  whom  the  allusion  was  intended  to  apply,  it  was 
at  once  removed.  The  wish  to  enlighten  the  charity  children 
became  universal,  and  the  three  Miss  Browns  were  unani- 
mously besought  to  divide  the  school  into  classes,  and  to 
assign  each  class  to  the  superintendence  of  two  young  ladies. 

A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing,  but  a  little  patronage 
is  more  so  ;  the  three  Miss  Browns  appointed  all  the  old 
maids,  and  carefully  excluded  the  young  ones.  Maiden 
aunts  triumphed,  mammas  were  reduced  to  the  lowest  depths 
of  despair,  and  there  is  no  telling  in  what  act  of  violence  the 
general  indignation  against  the  three  Miss  Browns  might 
have  vented  itself,  had  not  a  perfectly  providential  occurrence 
changed  the  tide  of  public  feeling.  Mrs.  Johnson  Parker,  the 
mother  of  seven  extremely  fine  girls — all  unmarried — hastily 
reported  to  several  other  mammas  of  several  other  unmarried 
families,  that  five  old  men,  six  old  women,  and  children  innu- 
merable, in  the  free  seats  near  her  pew,  were  in  the  habit  of 
coming  to  church  every  Sunday,  without  either  bible  or 
prayer-book.  Was  this  to  be  borne  in  a  civilized  country 
Could  such  things  be  tolerated  in  a  Christian  land  ?  Never  ! 
A  ladies'  bible  and  prayer-book  distribution  society  was  in- 
stantly formed  :  president,  Mrs.  Johnson  Parker  ;  treasurers, 
auditors,  and  secretary,  the  Misses  Johnson  Parker :  sub- 
scriptions were  entered  into,  books  were  bought,  all  the  free- 
seat  people  provided  therewith,  and  when  the  first  lesson  was 
given  out,  on  the  first  Sunday  succeeding  these  events,  there 
was  such  a  dropping  of  books,  and  rustling  of  leaves,  that  it 
was  morally  impossible  to  hear  one  word  of  the  service  for 
five  minutes  afterwards. 

The  three  Miss  Browns,  and  their  party,  saw  the  approach- 
ing danger,  and  endeavored  to  avert  it  by  ridicule  and  sarcasm. 
Neithei  the  old  men  nor  the  old  women  could  read  their 
books,  now  they  had  got  them,  said  the  three  Miss  Browns. 
Never  mind  ;  they  could  learn,  replied  Mrs.  Johnson  Parker. 
The  children  couldn't  read  either,  suggested  the  three  Miss 
Brown's.  No  matter;  they  could  be  taught,  retorted  Mrs. 
Johnson  Parker.  A  balance  of  parties  took  place.  The  Miss 
Browns  publicly  examined — popular  feeling  inclined  to  the 
child's  examination  society.     The   Miss  Johnson  Parkers 


390 


SKETCHES  BY  BO/.. 


publicly  distributed — a  reaction  took  place  in  favor  of  the 
prayer-book  distribution.  A  feather  would  have  turned  the 
scale,  and  a  feather  did  turn  it.  A  missionary  returned  from 
the  West  Indies  ;  he  was  to  be  presented  to  the  Dissenters' 
Missionary  Society  oil  his  marriage  with  a  wealthy  widow. 
Overtures  were  made  to  the  Dissenters  by  the  Johnson  Par- 
kers. Their  object  was  the  same,  and  why  not  have  a  joint 
meeting  of  the  two  societies  ?  The  proposition  was  accepted. 
The  meeting  was  duly  heralded  by  public  announcement,  and 
the  room  was  crowded  to  suffocation.  The  Missionary  ap- 
peared on  the  platform  ;  he  was  hailed  with  enthusiasm.  He 
repeated  a  dialogue  he  had  heard  between  two  negroes,  be- 
hind a  hedge,  on  the  subject  of  distribution  societie^i ;  the  ap- 
probation was  tumultuous.  He  gave  an  imitation  of  the  two 
negroes  in  broken  English  ;  the  roof  was  rent  with  applause. 
From  that  period  we  date  (with  one  trifling  exception;  a  daily 
increase  in  the  popularity  of  the  distribution  society,  and  an 
increase  of  popularity,  which  the  feeble  and  impotent  opposi- 
tion of  the  examination  party  has  only  tended  to  augment, 

Now,  the  great  points  about  the  childbed-linen  monthly 
loan  society  are,  that  it  is  less  dependent  on  the  fluctuations 
of  public  opinion  than  either  the  distribution  or  the  child's 
examination ;  and  that,  come  what  may,  there  is  never  any 
lack  of  objects  on  which  to  exercise  its  benevolence.  Our 
parish  is  a  very  populous  one,  and,  if  anything,  contributes, 
we  should  be  disposed  to  say,  rather  more  than  its  due  share 
to  the  aggregate  amount  of  births  in  the  metropolis  and  its  en- 
virons. The  consequence  is,  that  the  monthly  loan  society 
flourishes,  and  invests  its  members  with  a  most  enviable 
amount  of  bustling  patronage.  The  society  (whose  only  no- 
tion of  dividing  time,  would  appear  to  be  its  allotment  into 
months)  holds  monthly  tea-drinkings,  at  which  the  monthly 
report  is  received,  a  secretary  elected  for  the  month  ensuing, 
and  such  of  the  monthly  boxes  as  may  not  happen  to  be  out 
on  loan  for  the  month,  carefully  examined. 

We  were  never  present  at  one  of  these  meetings,  from  all 
of  which  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say,  gentlemen  are  care- 
fully excluded  ;  but  Mr.  Bung  has  been  called  before  the  board 
once  or  twice,  and  we  have  his  authority  for  stating,  that  its 
proceedings  are  conducted  with  great  order  and  regularity  : 
not  more  than  four  members  being  allowed  to  speak  at  one 
time  on  any  pretence  whatever.  The  regular  committee  is 
composed  exclusively  of  married  ladies,  but  a  vast  number  of 
young  unmarried  ladies  of  from  eighteen  to  twenty-five  years 


THE  LADIES' '  SOCIE  TIES.  3 9  x 

of  age,  respectively,  are  admitted  as  honorary  members,  partly 
because  they  are  very  useful  in  replenishing  the  boxes,  and 
visiting  the  confined ;  partly  because  it  is  highly  desirable 
that  they  should  be  initiated,  at  an  early  period,  into  the  more 
serious  and  matronly  duties  of  after-life  ;  ana  partly,  because 
prudent  mammas  have  not  unfrequently  been  known  to  turn 
this  circumstance  to  wonderfully  good  account  in  matrimonial 
speculations. 

In  addition  to  the  loan  of  the  monthly  boxes  (which  are 
always  painted  blue,  with  the  name  of  the  society  in  large 
white  letters  on  the  lid),  the  society  dispense  occasional  grants 
of  beef-tea,  and  a  composition  of  warm  beer,  spice,  eggs,  and 
sugar,  commonly  known  by  the  name  of  "caudle,"  to  its 
patients.  And  here  again  the  services  of  the  honorary  mem- 
bers are  called  into  requisition,  and  most  cheerfully  conceded. 
Deputations  of  twos  or  threes  are  sent  out  to  visit  the  patients, 
and  on  these  occasions  there  is  such  a  tasting  of  caudle  and 
beef-tea,  such  a  stirring  about  of  little  messes  in  tiny  sauce- 
.pans  on  the  hob,  such  a  dressing  and  undressing  of  in- 
fants, such  a  tying,  and  folding,  and  pinning  ;  such  a  nursing 
and  warming  of  little  legs  and  feet  before  the  fire,  such  a  de- 
lightful confusion  of  talking  and  cooking,  bustle,  importance, 
and  officiousness,  as  never  can  be  enjoyed  in  its  full  extent 
but  on  similar  occasions. 

In  rivalry  of  these  two  institutions,  and  as  a  last  expiring 
effort  to  acquire  parochial  popularity,  the  child's  examination 
people  determined,  the  other  day,  on  having  a  grand  public 
examination  of  the  pupils ;  and  the  large  school-room  of  the 
national  seminary  was,  by  and  with  the  consent  of  the  parish 
authorities,  devoted  to  the  purpose.  Invitation  circulars  were 
forwarded  to  all  the  principal  parishioners,  including,  of  course, 
the  heads  of  the  other  two  societies,  for  whose  especial  be- 
hoof and  edification  the  display  was  intended  ;  and  a  large 
audience  was  confidently  anticipated  on  the  occasion.  The 
floor  was  carefully  scrubbed  the  day  before,  under  the  imme- 
diate superintendence  of  the  three  Miss  Browns  ;  forms  were 
placed  across  the  room  for  the  accommodation  of  the  visitors, 
specimens  in  writing  were  carefully  selected,  and  as  carefully 
patched  and  touched  up,  until  they  astonished  the  children 
who  had  written  them,  rather  more  than  the  company  who 
read  them  ;  sums  in  compound  addition  were  rehearsed  and 
re-rehearsed  until  all  the  children  had  the  totals  by  heart ;  and 
the  preparations  altogether  were  on  the  most  laborious  and 
comprehensive  scale.     The  morning  arrived  :  the  childie?? 


392 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


were  yellow-soaped  and  flannelled,  and  towelled,  till  theil 
faces  shone  again  ;  every  pupil's  hair  was  carefully  combed 
into  his  or  her  eyes,  as  the  case  might  be ;  the  girls  were 
adorned  with  snow-white  tippets,  and  caps  bound  round  the 
head  by  a  single  purple  ribbon:  the  necks  of  the-  elder  boys 
were  fixed  into  collars  of  startling  dimensions. 

The  doors  were  thrown  open,  and  the  Misses  Brown  and 
Co.  were  discovered  in  plain  white  muslin  dresses,  and  caps 
of  the  same — the  child's  examination  uniform.  The  room 
filled :  the  greetings  of  the  company  were  loud  and  cordial. 
The  distributionists  trembled,  for  their  popularity  w^as  at 
stake.  The  eldest  boy  fell  forward,  and  delivered  a  propi- 
tiatory address  from  behind  his  collar.  It  was  from  the  pen 
of  Mr.  Henry  Brown  ;  the  applause  was  universal,  and  the 
Johnson  Parkers  were  aghast.  The  examination  proceeded 
v/ith  success,  and  terminated  in  triumph.  The  child's  exami- 
nation society  gained  a  momentary  victory,  and  the  Johnson 
Parkers  retreated  in  despair. 

A  secret  council  of  the  distributionists  was  held  that  night, . 
with  Mrs.  Johnson  Parker  in  the  chair,  to  consider  of  the  best 
means  of  recovering  the  ground  they  had  lost  in  the  favor  of 
the  parish.  What  could  be  done  ?  Another  meeting  !  Alas  ! 
who  was  to  attend  it  ?  The  Missionary  would  not  do  twice  ; 
and  the  slaves  were  emancipated.  A  bold  step  must  be 
taken.  The  parish  must  be  astonished  in  some  way  or  other ; 
but  no  one  was  able  to  suggest  what  the  step  should  be. 
At  length,  a  very  old  lady  was  heard  to  mumble,  in  indistinct 
tones,  "  Exeter  Hall."  A  sudden  light  broke  in  upon  the 
meeting.  It  was  unanimously  resolved,  that  a  deputation  of 
old  ladies  should  wait  upon  a  celebrated  orator,  imploring  his 
assistance,  and  the  favor  of  a  speech  ;  and  the  deputation 
should  also  wait  on  two  or  three  other  imbecile  old  women, 
not  resident  in  the  parish,  and  entreat  their  attendance.  The 
application  was  successful,  the  meeting  was  held  ;  the  orator 
(an  Irishman)  came.  He  talked  of  green  isles — other  shores 
' — vast  Atlantic — bosom  of  the  deep — Christian  charity — blood 
and  extermination — mercy  in  hearts — arms  in  hands— altars 
and  homes — household  gods.  He  wiped  his  eyes,  he  blew  his 
nose,  and  he  quoted  Latin.  The  effect  was  tremendous — the 
Latin  was  a  decided  hit.  Nobody  knew  exactly  what  it  was 
about,  but  everybody  knew  it  must  be  affecting,  because  even 
the  orator  was  overcome.  The  popularity  of  the  distribution 
society  among  the  ladies  of  our  parish  is  unprecedented  ;  and 
the  child's  examination  is  going  fast  to  decay. 


OUR  NEXT-DOOR  NEIGHBOR. 


393 


CHAPTER  VII. 

OUR  NEXT-DOOR  NEIGHBOR. 

We  are  very  fond  of  speculating  as  we  walk  through  a 
street,  on  the  character  and  pursuits  of  the  people  who  in- 
habit it ;  and  nothing  so  materially  assists  us  in  these  specu- 
lations as  the  appearance  of  the  house  doors.  The  various 
expressions  of  the  human  countenance  afford  a  beautiful  and 
interesting  study  ;  but  there  is  something  in  the  physiognomy 
of  street-door  knockers,  almost  as  characteristic,  and  nearly 
as  infallible.  Whenever  we  visit  a  man  for  the  first  time,  we 
contemplate  the  features  of  his  knocker  with  the  greatest 
curiosity,  for  we  well  know,  that  between  the  man  and  his 
knocker,  there  will  inevitably  be  a  greater  or  less  degree  of 
resemblance  and  sympathy. 

For  instance,  there  is  one  description  of  knocker  that  used 
to  be  common  enough,  but  which  is  fast  passing  away — a 
large  round  one,  with  the  jolly  face  of  a  convivial  lion  smiling 
blandly  at  you,  as  you  twist  the  sides  of  your  hair  into  a  curl, 
or  pull  up  your  shirt-collar  while  you  are  waiting  for  the  door 
to  be  opened ;  we  never  saw  that  knocker  on  the  door  of  a 
churlish  man — so  far  as  our  experience  is  concerned,  it  in- 
variably bespoke  hospitality  and  another  bottle. 

No  man  ever  saw  this  knocker  on  the  door  of  a  small  at- 
torney or  bill-broker;  they  always  patronize  the  other  lion  ;  a 
heavy  ferocious-looking  fellow,  with  a  countenance  expressive 
of  savage  stupidity — a  sort  of  grand  master  among  the  knock- 
ers, and  a  great  favorite  with  the  selfish  and  brutal. 

Then  there  is  a  little  pert  Egyptian  knocker,  with  a  long 
thin  face,  a  pinched  up  nose,  and  a  very  sharp  chin  ;  fie  is 
most  in  vogue  with  your  government-office  people,  in  light 
drabs  and  starched  cravats  ;  little  spare  priggish  men,  who 
are  perfectly  satisfied  with  their  own  opinions,  and  consider 
themselves  of  paramount  importance. 

We  were  greatly  troubled  a  few  years  ago,  by  the  innova- 
tion of  a  new  kind  of  knocker,  without  any  face  at  all,  com- 
posed of  a  wreath,  depending  from  a  hand  or  small  truncheon. 
A  little  trouble  and  attention,  however,  enabled  us  to  over- 
come this  difficulty,  and  to  reconcile  the  new  system  to  our 
favorite  theory.    Vou  will  invariably  find  this  knocker  on  th« 


394 


SKE  rCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 


doors  of  cold  and  formal  people,  who  always  ask  you  why  yoy 
don't  come,  and  never  say  do. 

Everybody  knows  the  brass  knocker  is  common  to  sub- 
urban villas,  and  extensive  boarding-schools ;  and  having  no- 
ticed this  genus  we  have  recapitulated  all  the  most  prominent 
and  strongly-defined  species. 

Some  phrenologists  affirm,  that  the  agitation  of  a  man's 
brain  by  different  passions,  produces  corresponding  develop- 
ments in  the  form  of  his  skull.  Do  not  let  us  be  understood 
as  pushing  our  theory  to  the  full  length  of  asserting,  that  any 
alteration  in  a  man's  disposition  would  produce  a  visible  ef- 
fect on  the  feature  of  his  knocker.  Our  position  merely  is, 
that  in  such  a  case,  the  magnetism  which  must  exist  between 
a  man  and  his  knocker,  would  induce  the  man  to  remove,  and 
seek  some  knocker  more  congenial  to  his  altered  feelings. 
If  you  ever  find  a  man  changing  his  habitation  without  any 
reasonable  pretext,  depend  upon  it,  that,  although  he  may  not 
be  aware  or  the  fact  himself,  it  is  because  he  and  his  knocker 
are  at  variance.  This  is  a  new  theory,  but  we  venture  to 
launch  it,  nevertheless,  as  being  quite  as  ingenious  and  infalli- 
ble as  many  thousands  of  the  learned  speculations  which  are 
daily  broached  for  public  good  and  private  fortune- making. 

Entertaining  these  feelings  on  the  subject  of  knockers,  it 
will  be  readily  imagined  with  what  consternation  we  viewed 
the  entire  removal  of  the  knocker  from  the  door  of  the  next 
house  to  the  one  we  lived  in,  some  time  ago,  and  the  substitu- 
tion of  a  bell.  This  was  a  calamity  we  had  never  anticipated. 
The  bare  idea  of  anybody  being  able  to  exist  without  a  knocker 
appeared  so  wild  and  visionary,  that  it  had  never  for  one  in- 
stant entered  our  imagination. 

We  sauntered  moodily  from  the  spot,  and  bent  our  steps 
towards  Eaton-square,  then  just  building.  What  was  our 
astonishment  and  indignation  to  find  that  bells  were  fast  be- 
coming the  rule,  and  knockers  the  exception  !  Our  theory 
trembled  beneath  the  shock.  W^e  hastened  home  :  and  fan- 
cying we  foresaw  in  the  swift  progress  of  events,  its  entire 
abolition^  resolved  from  that  day  forward  to  vent  our  specula- 
tions on  our  next-door  neighbors  in  person.  The  house  ad- 
joining ours  on  the  left  hand  v/as  uninhabited,  and  we  had. 
therefore,  plenty  of  leisure  to  observe  our  next-door  neighbors 
on  the  other  side. 

The  house  v/ithout  the  knocker  was  in  the  occupation  of  a 
city  clerk,  and  there  was  a  neatly-written  bill  in  the  parloi 


OUR  NEXT-DOOR  NEIGHBOR, 


39S 


window,  intimating  that  lodgings  for  a  single  gentleman  were 
to  be  let  within. 

It  was  r.  neat,  dull  little  house,  on  the  shady  side  of  the 
way,  with  new,  narrow  floorcloth  in  the  passage,  and  new, 
narrow  stair-carpets  up  to  the  first  floor.  The  paper  was  new, 
and  the  paint  was  new,  and  the  furniture  was  new  ;  and  all 
three,  paper,  paint,  and  furniture,  bespoke  the  limited  means 
of  the  tenant.  There  was  a  little  red  and  black  carpet  in  tlie 
drawing-room,  with  a  border  of  flooring  all  the  way  round  ;  a 
few  stained  chairs,  and  a  pembroke  table.  A  pink  shell  was  dis- 
played on  each  or  the  little  sideboards,  which,  with  the  addi- 
tion oi  a  tea-tray  and  caddy,  a  few  more  shells  on  the  mantel- 
piece, and  three  peacock's  feathers  tastefully  arranged  above 
them,  completed  the  decorative  furniture  of  the  apartment. 

This  was  the  room  destined  for  the  reception  of  the  sin- 
gle gentleman  during  the  day,  and  a  little  Back  room  on  the 
same  floor  was  assigned  as  his  sleeping  apartment  by  night. 

The  bill  had  not  been  long  in  the  window,  when  a  stout, 
good-humored  looking  gentleman,  of  about  five-and-thirty,  ap- 
peared as  a  candidate  for  the  tenancy.  Terms  were  soon  ar- 
ranged, for  the  bill  was  taken  down  immediately  after  his  first 
visit.  In  a  day  or  two  the  single  gentleman  came  in,  and 
shortly  afterwards  his  real  character  came  out. 

First  of  all,  he  displayed  a  most  extraordinary  partiality 
for  sitting  up  till  three  or  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  drinking 
whiskey-and-water,  and  smoking  cigars  ;  then  he  invited  friends 
home,  who  used  to  come  at  ten  o'clock^  and  begin  to  get  happy 
about  the  small  hours,  when  they  evinced  their  perfect  con- 
tentment by  singing  songs  with  half-a-dozen  verses  of  two 
lines  each,  and  a  chorus  of  ten,  which  chorus  used  to  be 
shouted  forth  by  the  whole  strength  of  the  company,  in  the 
most  enthusiastic  and  vociferous  manner,  to  the  great  annov- 
ance  of  the  neighbors,  and  the  special  discomfort  of  another 
single  gentleman  overhead. 

Now,  this  was  bad  enough,  occurring  as  it  did  three  times 
a  week  on  the  average,  but  this  was  not  all;  for  when  tiK^ 
company  did  go  away,  instead  of  walking  quietly  down  tlie 
street,  as  anybody  else's  company  would  have  done,  they 
amused  themselves  by  making  alarming  and  frightful  noises, 
and  counterfeiting  the  shrieks  of  females  in  distress  ;  and  one 
nighi,  a  red-.aced  gentleman  in  a  white  hat  knocked  in  the 
mos'c  urgent  manner  at  the  door  of  the  powdered-headed  old 
gentleman  at  No.  3,  and  when  the  powdered-headed  old 


39^ 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


gentleman,  who  thought  one  of  his  married  daughters  must 
have  been  taken  ill  prematurely,  had  groped  down  stairs,  and 
after  a  great  deal  of  unbolting  and  key-turning,  opened  the 
street  door,  the  red-faced  man  in  the  white  hat  said  he  hoped 
he'd  excuse  his  giving  him  so  much  trouble,  but  he'd  feel  ob- 
liged if  he'd  favor  him  with  a  glass  of  cold  spring  water,  and 
the  loan  of  a  shilling  for  a  cab  to  take  him  home,  on  which 
the  old  gentleman  slammed  the  door  and  went  up  stairs,  and 
threw  the  contents  of  his  water  jug  out  of  window — very 
straight,  only  it  went  over  the  wrong  man ;  and  the  whole 
street  was  involved  in  confusion. 

A  joke's  a  joke  ;  and  even  practical  jests  are  very  capital 
in  their  way,  if  you  can  only  get  the  other  party  to  see  the  fun 
of  them  ;  but  the  population  of  our  street  were  so  dull  of  ap- 
prehension, as  to  be  quite  lost  to  a  sense  of  the  drollery  of 
this  proceeding  ;  and  the  consequence  was,  that  our  next-door 
neighbor  was  obliged  to  tell  the  single  gentleman,  that  unless 
he  gave  up  entertaining  his  friends  at  home,  he  really  must  be 
compelled  to  part  with  him.  The  single  gentleman  received  the 
remonstrance  v/ith  great  good-humor,  and  promised  from  that 
time  forward,  to  spend  his  evenings  at  a  coffee-house — a  de- 
termination which  afforded  general  and  unmixed  satisfaction. 

The  next  night  passed  off  very  well,  everybody  being  de- 
lighted with  the  ^  change  ;  but  on  the  next,  the  noises  were 
renewed  with  greater  spirit  than  ever.  The  single  gentleman's 
friends  being  unable  to  see  him  in  his  own  house  every 
alternate  night,  had  come  to  the  determination  of  seeing  him 
home  every  night ;  and  what  with  the  discordant  greetings  of 
the  friends  at  parting,  and  the  noise  created  by  the  single 
gentleman  in  his  passage  up  stairs,  and  his  subsequent 
struggles  to  get  his  boots  off,  the  evil  was  not  to  be  borne. 
So,  our  next-door  neighbor  gave  the  single  gentleman,  who 
was  a  very  good  lodger  in  other  respects,  notice  to  quit ;  and 
the  single  gentleman  went  away,  and  entertained  his  friends 
in  other  lodgings. 

The  next  applicant  for  the  vacant  first  floor,  was  of  a  very 
different  character  from  the  troublesome  single  gentleman 
who  had  just  quitted  it.  He  was  a  tall,  thin,  young  gentle- 
man, with  a  profusion  of  brown  hair,  reddish  whiskers,  and 
very  slightly  developed  mustaches.  He  w^ore  a  braided 
surtout  with  frogs  behind,  light  gray  trousers,  and  wash- 
leather  gloves,  and  had  altogether  rather  a  military  appear- 
ance.   So  unlike  the  roystering   single   gentleman.  Such 


OUR  NEXT-DOOR  NEIGHBOR. 


397 


insinuating  manners,  and  such  a  delightful  address  ?  So 
seriously  disposed,  too  !  When  he  first  came  to  look  at  the 
lodgings,  he  inquired  most  particularly  whether  he  was  sure 
to  be  able  to  get  a  seat  in  the  parish  church  ;  and  when  he 
had  agreed  to  take  them,  he  requested  to  have  a  list  of  the 
different  local  charities,  as  he  intended  to  subscribe  his  mite 
to  the  most  deserving  among  them. 

Our  next-door  neighbor  was  now  perfectly  happy.  He 
had  got  a  lodger  at  last,  of  just  his  own  way  of  thinking — a 
serious,  well-disposed  man,  who  abhorred  gayety,  and  loved 
retirement.  He  took  down  the  bill  with  a  light  heart,  and 
pictured  in  imagination  a  long  series  of  quiet  Sundays,  on 
which  he  and  his  lodger*would  exchange  mutual  civilities  and 
Sunday  papers. 

The  serious  man  arrived,  and  his  luggage  was  to  arrive 
from  the  country  next  morning.  He  borrowed  a  clean  shirt, 
and  a  prayer-book,  from  our  next-door  neighbor,  and  retired 
to  rest  at  an  early  hour,  requesting  that  he  might  be  called 
punctually  at  ten  o'clock  next  morning — not  before,  as  he  was 
much  fatigued. 

He  was  called,  and  did  not  answer :  he  was  called  again, 
but  there  was  no  reply.  Our  next-door  neighbor  became 
alarmed,  and  burst  the  door  open.  The  serious  man  had  left 
the  house  mysteriously ;  carrying  with  him  the  shirt,  the 
prayer-book,  a  teaspoon,  and  the  bedclothes. 

Whether  this  occurrence,  coupled  with  the  irregularities  of 
his  former  lodger,  gave  our  next-door  neighbor  an  aversion 
to  single  gentlemen,  we  know  not ;  we  only  know  that  the  next 
bill  which  made  its  appearance  in  the  parlor  window  intimated 
generally,  that  there  were  furnished  apartments  to  let  on  the 
first  floor.  The  bill  was  soon  removed.  The  new  lodgers  at 
first  attracted  our  curiosity,  and  afterwards  excited  our  interest. 

They  were  a  young  lad  of  eighteen  or  nineteen,  and  his 
mother,  a  lady  of  about  fifty,  or  it  might  be  less.  The  mother 
wore  a  widow's  weeds,  and  the  boy  was  also  clothed  in  deep 
mourning.  They  were  poor — very  poor  ;  for  their  only  means 
of  support  arose  from  the  pittance  the  boy  earned,  by  copying 
writings,  and  translating  for  booksellers. 

They  had  removed  from  some  country  place  and  settled 
in  London  ;  partly  because  it  afforded  better  chances  of  em- 
ployment for  the  boy,  and  partly,  perhaps,  with  the  natural 
desire  to  leave  a  place  where  they  had  been  in  better  circum- 
stances, and  where  their  poverty  was  known.    They  were 


39» 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


proud  under  their  reverses,  and  above  revealing  their  wants 
and  privations  to  strangers.  How  bitter  those  privations 
were,  and  how  hard  the  boy  worked  to  remove  them,  no  one 
ever  knew  but  themselves.  Night  after  night,  two,  three,  four 
hours  after  midnight,  could  we  hear  the  occasional  raking  ap 
of  the  scanty  fire,  or  the  hollow  and  half-stifled  cough,  wliich 
indicated  his  being  still  at  work ;  and  day  after  day,  could  v.  e 
see  more  plainly  that  nature  had  set  that  unearthly  light  in 
his  plaintive  face,  which  is  the  beacon  of  her  worst  disease. 

Actuated,  we  hope,  by  a  higher  feeling  than  mere  curiosity, 
we  contrived  to  establish,  first  an  acquaintance,  and  then  a 
close  intimacy,  with  the  poor  strangers.  Our  worst  fears 
were  realized  ;  the  boy  was  sinking  fast.  Through  a  part  of  the 
winter,  and  the  whole  of  the  following  spring  and  summer,  his 
labors  were  unceasingly  prolonged  :  and  t^e  mother  attempt- 
ed to  procure  needlework,  embroidery — anything  for  bread. 

A  few  shillings  now  and  then,  were  all  she  could  earn. 
The  boy  worked  steadily  on  ;  dying  by  minutes,  but  nevei 
once  giving  utterance  to  complaint  or  murmur. 

One  beautiful  autumn  evening  we  went  to  pay  our  cus 
tomary  visit  to  the  invalid.  His  little  remaining  strength  had 
been  decreasing  rapidly  for  two  or  three  days  preceding,  and 
he  was  lying  on  the  sofa  at  the  open  window,  gazing  at  the 
setting  sun.  His  mother  had  been  reading  the  Bible  to  him, 
for  she  closed  the  book  as  we  entered,  and  advanced  to  meet  us. 

"  I  was  telling  William,"'  she  said,  that  we  must  manage 
to  take  him  into  the  country  somewhere,  so  that  he  may  get 
quite  well.  He  is  not  ill,  you  know,  but  he  is  not  very  strong, 
and  has  exerted  himself  too  much  lately.'^  Poor  thing  !  Tlie 
tears  that  streamed  through  her  fingers,  as  she  turned  aside, 
as  if  to  adjust  her  close  widow's  cap,  too  plainly  showed  how 
fruitless  was  the  attempt  to  deceive  herself. 

We  sat  down  by  the  head  of  the  sofa,  but  said  nothing, 
for  we  saw  the  breath  of  life  was  passing  gently  but  rapidly 
from  the  young  form  before  us.  At  every  respiration,  his 
heart  beat  more  slowly. 

The  boy  placed  one  hand  in  ours,  grasped  his  mother's 
"arm  with  the  other,  drew  her  hastily  towards  him,  and 
fervently  kissed  her  cheek.  There  was  a  pause.  He  sunk 
back  upon  his  pillow,  and  looked  long  and  earnestly  in  his 
mother's  face. 

"William,  M^illiam  !"  murmured  the  mother,  after  a  long 
interval,  "  don't  look  at  me  so — speak  to  me,  dear !  " 


THE  STREETS—MORNING. 


399 


The  boy  smiled  languidly,  hut  an  instant  afterwards  his 
features  resolved  into  the  some  cold,  solemn  gaze. 

"William,  dear  William!  rouse  ^'ourself ;  don't  look  at  me 
SO;  love — oray  don't !  Oh,  my  God  !  what  shall  I  do  !  ''  cried 
tne  widow,  clasping  her  hanas  in  agony — my  dear  boy  !  he 
is  dying  ! 

The  boy  raised  himsf/K  by  a  violent  ehort,  and  folded  his 
hands  together — Motlicr  !  dear,  dear  mother,  bury  me  in  the 
open  fields — anywhere  but  in  these  dreadful  streets.  I  should 
like  to  be  where  you  can  see  my  grave,  but  not  in  these  close 
crowded  streets  j  they  have  killed  me  ;  kiSS  me  again,  mother  \ 
put  3' our  arm  round  my  neck — " 

He  fell  back,  and  a  strange  expression  stole  upon  his  fea- 
tures ;  not  of  pain  or  suffering,  but  an  indescribable  fixing  of 
every  line  and  m^ascle. 

The  boy  was  dead. 


SCENES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  STREETS  MORNINGo 

The  appearance  presented  by  the  streets  of  London  an 
hour  before  sunrise,  on  a  summer's  morning,  is  most  striking 
even  to  the  few  whose  unfortunate  pursuits  of  pleasure,  or 
scarcely  less  unfortunate  pursuits  of  business,  cause  them  to 
be  well  acquainted  with  the  scene.  There  is  an  aii  of  cold, 
solitary  desolation  about  the  noiseless  streets  which  we  are 
accustomed  to  see  thronged  at  other  times  by  a  busy,  eager 
crowd,  and  over  the  quiet,  closely-shut  luildings,  which 
throughout  the  day  are  swarming  with  life  and  bustle,  that  is 
very  impressive. 

The  last  drunken  man,  who  shaH'hnd  his  way  home  be- 
fore sunlight,  has  just  staggered  heavily  along,  roaring  out 
the  burden  of  the  drinking  song  of  the  previous  night :  the 
last  houseless  vagrant  whom  penury  and  police  have  left  in 


400 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


the  streets,  has  coiled  up  his  chilly  limbs  in  some  paved 
corner,  to  dream  of  food  and  warmth.  The  drunken,  the 
dissipated,  and  the  wretched  have  disappeared ;  the  more 
sober  and  orderly  part  of  the  population  have  not  yet 
awakened  to  the  labors  of  the  day,  and  the  stillness  of  death 
is  over  the  streets  ;  its  very  hue  seems  to  be  imparted  to 
them,  cold  and  lifeless  as  they  look  in  the  gray,  sombre  light 
of  daybreak.  The  coach-stands  in  the  larger  thoroughfares 
are  deserted  ;  the  night-houses  are  clq^ed  ;  and  the  chosen 
promenades  of  profligate  misery  are  empty. 

An  occasional  policeman  may  alone  be  seen  at  the  street 
corners,  listlessly  gazing  on  the  deserted  prospect  before  him  ; 
and  now  and  then  a  rakish  looking  cat  runs  stealthily  across 
the  road  and  descends  his  own  area  with  as  much  caution 
and  slyness — bounding  first  on  the  water-butt,  then  on  the 
dust-hole,  and  then  alighting  on  the  flag-stones — as  if  he 
were  conscious  that  his  character  depended  on  his  gallantry 
of  the  preceding  night  escaping  public  observation.  A  par- 
tially opened  bedroom-window  here  and  there,  bespeaks  the 
heat  of  the  weather,  and  the  uneasy  slumbers  of  its  occupant ; 
and  the  dim  scanty  flicker  of  the  rushlight,  through  the  win- 
dow-blind, denotes  the  chamber  of  watching  or  sickness. 
With  these  few  exceptions,  the  streets  present  no  signs  of 
life,  nor  the  houses  of  habitation. 

An  hour  wears  away  :  the  spires  of  the  churches  and  roofs 
of  the  principal  buildings  are  faintly  tinged  with  the  light  of 
the  rising  sun  ;  and  the  streets,  by  almost  imperceptible 
degrees,  begin  to  resume  their  bustle  and  animation.  Market- 
carts  roll  slowly  along :  the  sleepy  wagoner  impatiently  urg- 
ing on  his  tired  horses,  or  vainly  endeavoring  to  awaken  the 
boy,  who,  luxuriously  stretches  on  the  top  of  the  fruit-baskets, 
forgets,  in  happy  oblivion,  his  long-cherished  curiosity  to  be- 
hold the  wonders  of  London. 

Rough,  sleepy-looking  animals  of  strange  appearance, 
something  between  ostlers  and  hackney-coachmen,  begin  to 
take  down  the  shutters  of  early  public-houses  ;  and  little  deal 
tables,  with  the  ordinary  preparations  for  a  street  breakfast, 
make  their  appearance  at  the  customary  stations.  Numbers 
of  men  and  women  (principally  the  latter),  carrying  upon  their 
heads  heavy  baskets  of  fruit,  toil  down  the  park  side  of  Pic- 
cadilly  on  their  way  to  Covent  Garden,  and,  following  each 
other  in  rapid  succession,  form  a  long  straggling  line  from 
thence  to  the  turn  of  the  road  at  Knightsbridge. 


THE  STREETS— MORNING. 


401 


Here  and  there,  a  bricklayer's  laborer,  with  the  day's 
dinner  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief,  walks  briskly  to  his  work, 
and  occasionally  a  little  knot  of  three  or  four  schoolboys  on  a 
stolen  bathing  expedition  rattle  merrily  over  the  pavement, 
their  boisterc^us  mirth  contrasting  forcibly  with  the  demeanor 
of  the  little  sweep,  who,  having  knocked  and  rung  till  his  arm 
aches,,  and  being  interdicted  by  a  merciful  legislature  from  en- 
dangering his  lungs  by  calling  out,  sits  patiently  down  on  the 
door-step,  until  the  housemaid  may  happen  to  awake. 

Covent  Garden  market,  and  the  avenues  leading  to  it, 
are  thronged  with  carts  of  all  sorts,  sizes,  and  descriptions, 
from  the  heavy  lumbering  wagon,  with  its  four  stout  horses, 
to  the  jingling  costermonger's  cart,  with  its  consumptive  don- 
key. The  pavement  is  already  strewed  with  decayed  cabbage- 
leaves,  broken  hay-bands,  and  all  the  indescribable  litter  of  a 
vegetable  market ;  men  are  shouting,  carts  backing,  horses 
neighing,  boys  fighting,  basket-women  talking,  piemen  expa- 
tiating on  the  excellence  of  their  pastry,  and  donkeys  braying. 
These  and  a  hundred  other  sounds  form  a  compound  discor- 
dant enough  to  a  Londoner's  ears,  and  remarkably  disagreeable 
to  those  of  country  gentlemen  who  are  sleeping  at  the  Hum- 
mums  for  the  first  time. 

Another  hour  passes  away,  and  the  day  begins  in  good 
earnest.  The  servant  of  all  work,  who,  under  the  plea  of 
sleeping  very  soundly,  has  utterly  disregarded  Missis's  " 
ringing  for  half  an  hour  previously,  is  warned  by  Master  (whom 
Missis  has  sent  up  in  his  drapery  to  the  landing-place  for  that 
purpose),  that  it's  half-past  six,  whereupon  she  awakes  all  of 
a  sudden,  with  well-feigned  astonishment,  and  goes  down 
stairs  very  sulkily,  wishing,  while  she  strikes  a  light,  that  the 
principle  of  spontaneous  combustion  would  extend  itself  to 
coals  and  kitchen  range.  When  the  fire  is  lighted,  she  opens 
the  street-door  to  take  in  the  milk,  when,  by  the  most  singular 
coincidence  in  the  world,  she  discovers  that  the  servant  next 
door  has  just  taken  in  her  milk  too,  and  that  Mr,  Todd's 
young  man  over  the  way,  is,  by  an  equally  extraordinary 
chance,  taking  down  his  master's  shutters.  The  inevitable 
consequence  is,  that  she  just  steps,  milk-jug  in  hand,  as  far 
as  next  door,  just  to  say  "good-morning,"  to  Betsy  Clark, 
and  that  Mr.  Todd's  young  man  just  steps  over  the  way  to  say 
"  good-morning "  to  both  of  'em;  and  as  the  aforesaid  Mr. 
Todd's  young  man  is  almost  as  good-looking  and  fascinating 
as  the  baker  himself,  the  conversation  quickly  becomes  very 
interesting,  and  probably  would  become  more  so,  if  Betsy 


402 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


Clark's  Missis,  who  always  will  be  a-followin'  her  about,  didn't 
give  an  angry  tap  at  her  bedroom  window,  on  which  Mr. 
Todd's  young  man  tries  to  whistle  coolly,  as  he  goes  back  to 
his  shop  much  faster  than  he  came  from  it ;  and  the  two  girls 
run  back  to  their  respective  places,  and  shut  their  street  doors 
with  surprising  softness,  each  of  them  poking  their  heads  out 
of  the  front  parlor-window,  a  minute  afterwards,  however,  os- 
tensibly with  the  view  of  looking  at  the  mail  which  just  then 
passes  by,  but  really  for  the  purpose  of  catching  another 
glimpse  of  Mr.  Todd's  young  man,  who  being  fond  of  mails,  but 
more  of  females,  takes  a  short  look  at  the  mails,  and  a  long  look 
at  the  girls,  much  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  parties  concerned. 

The  mail  itself  goes  on  to  the  coach-office  in  due  course, 
and  the  passengers  who  are  going  out  by  the  early  coach, 
stare  with  astonishment  at  the  passengers  wdio  are  coming  in 
by  the  early  coach,  who  look  blue  and  dismal,  and  are  evi- 
dently under  the  influence  of  that  odd  feeling  produced  by 
travelling,  which  makes  the  events  of  yesterday  morning  seem 
as  if  they  had  happened  at  least  six  months  ago,  and  induces 
people  to  wonder  with  considerable  gravity  whether  the  friends 
and  relations  they  took  leave  of  a  fortnight  before,  have  al- 
tered much  since  they  have  left  them.  The  coach-office  is  all 
alive/and  the  coaches  which  are  just  going  out,  are  surrounded 
by  the  usual  crowd  of  Jews  and  nondescripts,  who  seem  to 
consider.  Heaven  knows  why,  that  it  is  quite  impossible  any 
man  can  mount  a  coach  without  requiring  at  least  sixpenn}'- 
worth  of  oranges,  a  penknife,  a  pocket-book,  a  last  year's 
annual,  a  pencil-case,  a  piece  of  sponge,  and  a  small  series  of 
caricatures. 

Half  an  hour  more,  and  the  sun  darts  his  bright  rays 
cheerfully  down  the  still  half-empty  streets,  and  shines  with 
sufficient  force  to  rouse  the  dismal  laziness  of  the  apprentice, 
who  pauses  every  other  minute  from  his  task  of  svjeeping 
out  the  shop  and  watering  th(S  pavement  in  front  of  it,  to  tell 
another  apprentice  similarly  employed,  how  hot  it  will  be  to- 
day, or  to  stand  with  his  right  hand  shading  his  eyes,  and  liis 
left  resting  on  the  broom,  gazing  at  the  Wonder,"  or  the 
Tally-ho,"  or  the  Nimrod,"  or  some  other  fast  coach,  till 
it  is  out  of  sight,  when  he  re-enters  the  shop,  envying  the  pas- 
sengers on  the  out-side  of  the  fast  coach,  and  thinking  of  the 
old  red  brick  house  down  in  the  country,"  where  he  went  to 
school  :  the  miseries  of  the  milk  and  water,  and  thick  bread 
and  scrapings,  fading  into  nothing  before  the  pleasant  recoh 
lection  of  the  green  field  thp  hovs  used  to  pl?^^  in,  and  the 


THE  STREETS— MORNING, 


green  pond  he  was  caned  for  presuming  to  fall  into,  and  othel 
schoolboy  associations. 

Cabs,  with  trunks  and  band-boxes  between  the  drivers' 
legs  and  outside  the  apron,  rattle  briskly  up  and  down  the 
streets  on  their  way  to  the  coach-offices  or  steam-packet 
wharfs  ;  and  the  cab-drivers  and  hackney-coachmen  who  are 
on  the  stand  polish  up  the  ornamental  part  of  their  dingy 
vehicles — the  former  wondering  how  people  can  prefer  "them 
wild  beast  cariwans  of  homnibuses,  to  a  riglar  cab  with  a  fast 
trotter,"  and  the  latter  admiring  how  people  can  trust  their 
necks  into  one  of  "  them  crazy  cabs,  when  they  can  have  a 
'spectable  'ackney  cotche  with  a  pair  of  'orses  as  von't  run  away 
with  no  vun  a  consolation  unquestionably  founded  on  fact, 
seeing  that  a  hackney-coach  horse  never  was  known  to  run  at 
all,  except,"  as  the  smart  cabman  in  front  of  the  rank  ob- 
serves, "except  one,  and  he  run  back'ards.' 

The  shops  are  now  completely  opened,  and  apprentices  and 
shopmen  are  busily  engaged  in  cleaning  and  decking  the  win- 
dows for  the  day.  The  bakers'  shops  in  town  are  filled  with  ser- 
vants and  children  waiting  for  the  drawing  of  the  first  batch  of 
rolls — an  operation  which  \vas  performed  a  full  hour  ago  in  the 
suburbs ;  for  the  early  clerk  population  of  Somers  and  Cam- 
den towns,  Islington,  and  Pentonville,  are  fast  pouring  into 
the  city,  or  directing  their  steps  towards  Chancery-lane  and 
the  Inns  of  Court.  Middle-aged  men,  w^hose  salaries  have  by 
no  means  increased  in  the  same  proportion  as  their  families, 
plod  steadily  along,  apparently  with  no  object  in  view  but  the 
counting-house  ;  knowing  by  sight  almost  everybody  they  meet 
or  overtake,  for  they  have  seen  them  every  morning  (Sundays 
excepted)  during  the  last  twenty  years,  but  speaking  to  no 
one.  If  they  do  happen  to  overtake  a  personal  acquaintance,  ^ 
they  just  exchange  a  hurried  salutation,  and  keep  walking  on 
either  by  his  side,  or  in  front  of  him,  as  his  rate  of  walking 
may  chance  to  be.  As  to  stopping  to  shake  hands,  or  to  take 
the  friend's  arm,  they  seem  to  think  that  as  it  is  not  included 
in  their  salary,  they  have  no  right  to  do  it.  Small  office  lads 
in  large  hats,  who  are  made  men  before  they  are  boys,  hurry 
along  in  pairs,  with  their  first  coat  carefully  brushed,  and  the 
white  trousers  of  last  Sunday  plentifully  besmeared  with  dust 
and  ink.  It  evidently  requires  a  considerable  mental  struggle 
to  avoid  investing  part  of  the  day's  dinner-money  in  the  pur- 
chase of  the  stale  tarts  so  temptingly  exposed  in  dusty  tins  at 
the  pastry-cooks'  doors ;  but  a  consciousness  of  their  own  im- 


404 


SKE  TCHES  B  V  BOZ. 


portance  and  the  receipt  of  seven  shillings  a-week,  with  the 
prospect  of  an  early  rise  to  eight,  comes  to  their  aid,  and  they 
accordingly  put  their  hats  a  little  more  on  one  side,  and  look 
under  the  bonnets  of  all  the  milliners'  and  staymakers'  ap- 
prentices they  meet — poor  girls  ! — the  hardest  worked,  the 
worst  paid,  and  too  often,  the  worst  used  class  of  the  com- 
munity. 

Eleven  o'clock,  and  a  new  set  of  people  fill  the  streets. 
The  goods  in  the  shop-windows  are  invitingly  arranged  ;  the 
shopmen  in  their  white  neckerchiefs  and  spruce  toats,  look 
as  if  they  couldn't  clean  a  window  if  their  lives  depended  on  it ; 
the  carts  have  disappeared  from  Covent  Garden  ;  the  wagon- 
ers have  returned,  and  the  costermongers  repaired  to  their 
ordinary  beats  "  in  the  suburbs  ;  clerks  are  at  their  offices, 
and  gigs,  cabs,  omnibuses,  and  saddle-horses,  are  conveying 
their  masters  to  the  same  destination.  The  streets  are 
thronged  with  a  vast  concourse  of  people,  gay  and  shabby, 
rich  and  poor,  idle  and  industrious  ;  and  we  come  to  the  heat, 
bustle,  and  activity  of  Noon. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  STREETS — NIGHT. 

But  the  streets  of  London,  to  be  beheld  in  the  very  height 
of  their  glory,  should  be  seen  on  a  dark,  dull,  murky  winter's 
night,  when  there  is  just  enough  damp  gently  stealing  down 
to  make  the  pavement  greasy,  without  cleansing  it  of  any  of 
its  impurities:  and  when  the  heavy  lazy  mist,  which  hangs 
over  every  object,  makes  the  gas-lamps  look  brighter,  and  the 
brilliantly-lighted  shops  more  splendid,  from  the  contrast  they 
present  to  the  darkness  around.  All  the  people  who  are  at 
home  on  such  a  night  as  this,  seem  disposed  to  make  them- 
selves as  snug  and  comfortable  as  possible  ;  and  the  passen- 
gers in  the  streets  have  excellent  reasons  to  envy  the  fortunate 
individuals  who  are  se^tted  by  their  own  firesides. 

In  the  larger  and  better  kind  of  streets,  dining  parlor  cur- 
tains are  closely  drawn,  kitchen  fires  blaze  brightly  up,  and 
savory  steams  of  hot  dinners  salute  the  nostrils  of  the  hungry 


THE  STREETS— NIGHT, 


wayfarer,  as  he  plods  wearily  by  the  area  railings.  In  the 
s«burbs,  the  muffin  boy  rings  his  way  down  the  little  street, 
much  more  slowly  than  he  is  wont  to  do  ;  for  Mrs.  Macklin, 
of  No.  4,  has  no  sooner  opened  her  little  street-door,  and 
screamed  out  Muffins  ! "  with  all  her  might,  than  Mrs. 
Walker,  at  No.  5,  puts  her  head  out  of  the  parlor  window,  and 
screams  Muffins  ! too  ;  and  Mrs.  Walker  has  scarcely  got 
the  words  out  of  her  lips,  than  Mrs.  Peplow,  over  the  way, 
lets  loose  Master. Peplow,  who  darts  down  the  street,  with  a 
velocity  Which  nothing  but  buttered  muffins  in  perspective 
could  possibly  inspire,  and  drags  the  boy  back  by  main  force, 
whereupon  Mrs.  Macklin  and  Mrs.  Walker,  just  to  save  the 
boy  trouble,  and  to  say  a  few  neighborly  words  to  Mrs.  Pep- 
low at  the  same  time,  run  over  the  way  and  buy  their  muffins 
at  Mrs.  Peplow's  door,  when  it  appears  from  the  voluntary 
statement  of  Mrs.  Walker,  that  her  "  kittle's  jist  a-biling,  and 
the  cups  and  sarsers  ready  laid,"  and  that,  as  it  was  such  a 
wretched  night  out  o'  doors,  she  made  up  her  mind  to  have  a 
nice  hot  comfortable  cup  o'  tea — a  determination  at  which,  by 
the  most  singular  coincidence,  the  other  two  ladies  had  simul- 
taneously arrived. 

After  a  little  conversation  about  the  wretchedness  of  the 
weather  and  the  merits  of  tea,  with  a  digression  relative  to  the 
viciousness  of  boys  as  a  rule,  and  the  amiability  of  Master 
Peplow  as  an  exception,  Mrs.  Walker  sees  her  husband  com- 
ing down  the  street ;  and  as  he  must  want  his  tea,  poor  man, 
after  his  dirty  walk  from  the  Docks,  she  instantly  runs  across, 
muffins  in  hand,  and  Mrs.  Macklin  does  the  same,  and  dfter  a 
few  words  to  Mrs.  Walker,  they  all  pop  into  their  little  houses, 
and  slam  their  little  street  doors,  which  are  not  opened  again 
for  the  remainder  of  the  evening,  except  to  the  nine  o'clock 
"  beer,"  who  comes  round  with  a  lantern  in  front  of  his  tray, 
and  says,  as  he  lends  Mrs.  Walker  "  Yesterday's  'Tiser,"  that 
he's  blessed  if  he  can  hardly  hold  the  pot,  much  less  feel  the 
paper,  for  it's  one  of  the  bitterest  nights  he  ever  felt,  'cept  the 
night  when  the  man  was  frozen  to  death  in  the  Brick-field. 

After  a  little  prophetic  conversation  with  the  policeman  at 
the  street-corner,  touching  a  probable  change  in  the  weather, 
and  the  setting-in  of  a  hard  frost,  the  nine  o'clock  beer  re- 
turns to  his  master's  house,  and  employs  himself  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  evening,  in  assiduously  stirring  the  tap-room 
fire,  and  deferentially  taking  part  in  the  conversation  of  the 
worthies  assembled  round  it. 


4o6 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


The  streets  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Marsh-gate  and  Victoria 
Theatre  present  an  appearance  of  dirt  and  discomfort  on  such 
a  night,  which  the  groups  who  lounge  about  them  in  no  de- 
gree tend  to  diminish.  Even  the  httle  block-tin  temple  sacred 
to  baked  potatoes,  surmounted  by  a  splended  design  in  varie- 
gated lamps,  looks  less  gay  than  usual ;  and  as  to  the  kidney^ 
pie  stand,  its  glory  is  quite  departed.  The  candle  in  the 
transparent  lamp,  manufactured  of  oil-paper,  embellished  with 
characters,"  has  been  blown  out  fifty  times,  so  the  kidney- 
pie  merchant,  tired  with  running  backwards  and  forwards  to  the 
next  wine-vaults  to  get  a  light,  has  given  up  the  idea  of  illu- 
mination in  despair,  and  the  only  signs  of  his  "whereabout/^ 
are  the  bright  sparks,  of  which  a  long  irregular  train  is  whirled 
down  the  street  every  time  he  opens  his  portable  oven  to  hand 
a  hot  kidney-pie  to  a  customer. 

Flat  fish,  oyster,  and  fruit  venders  linger  hopelessly  in  the 
kennel,  in  vain  endeavoring  to  attract  customers  ;  and  the 
ragged  boys  who  usually  disport  themselves  about  the  streets, 
stand  crouched  in  little  knots  in  some  projecting  doorway,  or 
under  the  canvas  blind  of  a  cheesemonger's,  where  great  flar- 
ing gas-lights,  unshaded  by  any  glass,  display  huge  piles  of 
bright  red,  and  pale  yellow  cheeses,  mingled  with  little  five- 
penny  dabs  of  dingy  bacon,  various  tubs  of  weekly  Dorset, 
and  cloudy  rolls  of     best  fresh." 

Here  they  amuse  themselves  with  theatrical  converse,  aris- 
ing out  of  their  last  half-price  visit  to  the  Victoria  gallery,  ad- 
mire the  terrific  combat,  which  is  nightly  encored,  and  expati- 
ate on  the  inimitable  manner  in  which  Bill  Thompson  can 
"  come  the  double  monkey,"  or  go  through  the  mysterious 
involutions  of  a  sailor's  hornpipe. 

It  is  nearly  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  cold  thin  rain  which 
has  been  drizzling  so  long,  is  beginning  to  pour  down  in  good 
earnest  ;  the  baked-potato  man  has  departed — the  kidne3^-pie 
man  has  just  walked  away  with  his  warehouse  on  his  arm — 
the  cheesemonger  has  drawn  in  his  blind,  and  the  boys  have 
dispersed.  The  constant  clicking  of  pattens  on  the  slippy  and 
uneven  pavement,  and  the  rustling  of  umbrellas,  as  the  wind 
blows  against  the  shop  windows,  bear  testimony  to  the  in- 
clemency of  the  night  ;  and  the  policeman,  with  his  oilskin 
cape  buttoned  closely  round  him,  seems  as  he  holds  his  hat  on 
his  head,  and  turns  round  to  avoid  the  gust  of  wind  and  rain 
which  drives  against  him  at  the  street-corner,  to  be  very  far 
from  congratulating  himself  on  the  prospect  before  him. 


THE  STREETS— NIGHT.  407 

The  little  chandler's  shop  with  the  cracked  bell  behind  the 
door,  whose  melancholy  tinkling  has  been  regulated  by  the 
demand  for  quarterns  of  sugar  and  half-ounces  of  coffee, 
is  shutting  up.  The  crowds  which  have  been  passing  to  and 
fro  during  the  whole  da}^,  are  rapidly  dwindling  away  ;  and 
the  noise  of  shouting  and  quarrelling  which  issues  from  the 
public-houses,  is  almost  the  only  sound  that  breaks  the  melan- 
choly stillness  of  the  night. 

There  was  another,  but  it  has  ceased.  That  wretched 
woman  with  the  infant  in  her  arms,  round  whose  meagre  form 
the  remnant  of  her  own  scanty  shawl  is  carefully  wrapped,  has 
been  attempting  to  sing  some  popular  ballad,  in  the  hope  of 
wringing  a  few  pence  from  the  compassionate  passer-by.  A 
brutal  laugh  at  her  weak  voice  is  all  she  has  gained.  The 
tears  fall  thick  and  fast  down  her  own  pale  face  \  the  child  is 
cold  and  hungry,  and  its  low  half-stifled  wailing  adds  to  the 
misery  of  its  wretched  mother,  as  she  moans  aloud,  and  sinks 
despairingly  down,  on  a  cold,  damp  door-step. 

Singing !  How  few  of  those  who  pass  such  a  miserable 
creature  as  this,  think  of  the  anguish  of  heart,  the  sinking  of 
soul  and  spirit,  which  the  very  effort  of  singing  produces. 
Bitter  mockery !  Disease,  neglect,  and  starvation,  faintly 
articulating  the  w^ords  of  the  joyous  ditty,  that  has  enlivened 
your  hours  of  feasting  and  merriment,  God  knows  how  often ! 
It  is  no  subject  of  jeering.  The  weak  tremulous  voice  tells  a 
fearful  tale  of  want  and  famishing  ;  and  the  feeble  singer  of 
this  roaring  song  may  turn  away,  only  to  die  of  cold  and 
hunger. 

One  o'clock  !  Parties  returning  from  the  different  thea- 
tres foot  it  through  the  muddy  streets  ;  cabs,  hackney-coaches, 
carriages,  and  theatre  omnibuses,  roll  swiftly  by ;  w^atermen 
with  dim  dirty  lanterns  in  their  hands,  and  large  brass  plates 
upon  their  breasts,  w4io  have  been  shouting  and  rushing  about 
for  the  last  two  hours,  retire  to  their  watering-houses,  to  solace 
themselves  with  the  creature  comforts  of  pipes  and  purl ;  the 
half-price  pit  and  box  frequenters  of  the  theatres  throng  to 
the  different  houses  of  refreshment ;  and  chops,  kidneys,  rab- 
bits, oysters,  stout,  cigars,  and  "goes"  innumerable,  are 
served  up  amidst  a  noise  and  confusion  of  smoking,  running, 
knife-clattering,  and  waiter-chattering,  perfectly  indescribable 

The  more  m.usical  portion  of  the  play-going  community 
betake  themselves  to  some  harmonic  meeting.    As  a  matter 
of  curiosity  let  us  follow  them  thither  for  a  few  moments. 
18 


4o8         *  SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ, 


In  a  lofty  room  of  spacious  dimensions,  are  seated  some 
eighty  or  a  hundred  guests  knocking  Uttle  pewter  measures  on 
the  tables,  and  hammering  away,  with  the  handles  of  their 
knives,  as  if  they  were  so  many  trunk-makers.  They  are  ap- 
plauding a  glee,  which  has  just  been  executed  by  the  three 
professional  gentlemen  "  at  the  top  of  the  centre  table,  one 
of  whom  is  in  the  chair — the  little  pompous  man  with  the  bald 
head  just  emerging  from  the  collar  of  his  green  coat.  The 
others  are  seated  on  either  side  of  him — the  stout  man  with 
the  small  voice,  and  the  thin-faced  dark  man  in  black.  The 
little  man  in  the  chair  is  a  most  amusing  personage, — such 
condescending  grandeur,  and  such  a  voice  ! 

"  Bass  !  "  as  the  young  gentleman  near  us  with  the  blue 
stock  forcibly  remarks  to  his  companion,  "  bass  !  I  b'iieve 
you  ;  he  can  go  down  lower  than  any  man  :  so  low  sometimes 
that  you  can't  hear  him."  And  so  he  does.  To  hear  him 
growling  away,  gradually  low^er  and  lower  down,  till  he  can't 
get  back  again,  is  the  most  delightful  thing  in  the  world,  and 
it  is  quite  impossible  to  witness  unmoved  the  impressive 
solemnity  with  w^hich  he  pours  forth  his  soul  in  "  My  'art's  in 
the  'ighlands,"  or  "  The  brave  old  Hoak."  The  stout  man  is 
also  addicted  to  sentimentality,  and  warbles,  Fly,  fly  from 
the  world,  my  Bessy,  with  me,"  or  some  s'-ach  song,  with  lady- 
like sweetness,  and  in  the  most  seductive  tones  imaginable. 

"  Pray  give  your  orders,  gen'l'm'n — pray  give  your  orders," 
— says  the  pale-faced  man  with  the  red  head  ;  and  demands 
for  goes  "  of  gin  and  "goes  "  of  brandy,  and  pints  of  stout, 
and  cigars  of  peculiar  mildness,  are  vociferously  made  from 
all  parts  of  the  room.  The  "  professional  gentlemen  "  are  in 
the  very  height  of  their  glory,  and  bestow  condescending 
nods,  or  even  a  word  or  two  of  recognition,  on  the  better- 
known  frequenters  of  the  room,  in  the  most  bland  and  pa- 
tronizing manner  possible. 

That  little  round-faced  man,  with  the  small  brown  surtout, 
white  stockings  and  shoes,  is  in  the  comic,  line;  the  mixed  air 
of  self-denial,  and  mental  consciousness  of  his  own  powers, 
with  w^hich  he  acknowledges  the  call  of  the  chair,  is  particu- 
larly gratifying.  "  Gen'l'men,"  says  the  little  pompous  man, 
accompanying  the  word  with  a  knock  of  the  president's  ham- 
mer  on  the  table — Gen'l'men,  allow  me  to  claim  your  atten- 
tion— our  friend,  Mr.  Smuggins,  will  oblige." — "  Bravo  !  " 
shout  the  company  ;  and  Smuggins,  after  a  considerable 
quantity  of  coughing  by  way  of  symphony,  and  a  most  face- 


SHOPS  AND  THEIR  TENANTS. 


Uous  sniff  or  two,  which  afford  general  delight,  sings  a  comic 
ftong,  with  a  fal-de-ral — tol-de-rol  chorus  at  the  end  of  every 
verse,  much  longer  than  the  verse  itself.  It  is  received  with 
unbounded  applause,  and  after  some  aspiring  genius  has  vol- 
unteered a  recitation,  and  failed  dismally  therein,  the  little 
pompous  man  gives  another  knock,  and  says  "  Gen'l'men,  we 
will  attempt  a  glee,  if  you  please."  This  announcement  calls 
forth  tumultuous  applause,  and  the  more  energetic  spirits  ex 
press  the  unqualified  approbation  it  affords  them,  by  knock- 
ing one  or  two  stout  glasses  off  their  legs — a  humorous 
device  ;  but  one  which  frequently  occasions  some  slight  alter- 
cation when  the  form  cf  paying  the  damage  is  proposed  to 
be  gone  through  by  the  waiter. 

Scenes  like  these  are  continued  until  three  or  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning ;  and  even  when  they  close,  fresh  ones  open  to 
the  inquisitive  novice.  But  as  a  description  of  all  of  them, 
however  slight,  would  require  a  volume,  the  contents  of  which, 
however  instructive,  would  be  by  no  means  pleasing,  we  make 
our  bow,  and  drop  the  curtain. 


CHAPTER  IIL 

SHOPS  AND  THEIR  TENANTS. 

What  inexhaustible  food  for  speculation,  do  the  streets  of 
London  afford  !  We  never  were  able  to  agree  with  Sterne  in 
pitying  the  man  who  could  travel  from  Dan  to  Beersheba, 
and  say  that  all  was  barren  ;  we  have  not  the  slightest  com- 
miseration for  the  man  who  can  take  up  his  hat  and  stick, 
and  walk  from  Covent-garden  to  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  and 
back  into  the  bargain,  without  deriving  some  amusement — we 
had  almost  said  instruction — from  his  perambulation.  And 
yet  there  are  such  beings  :  we  meet  them  every  day.  Large 
black  stocks  and  light  waistcoats,  jet  canes  and  discontented 
countenances,  are  the  characteristics  of  the  race  ;  other  people 
brush  quickly  by  you,  steadily  plodding  on  to  business,  or 
cheerfully  running  after  pleasure.  These  men  linger  listlessly 
past,  looking  as  happy  and  animated  as  a  policeman  on  duty. 
Nothing  seems  to  make  an  impression  on  their  minds  :  noth- 
ing short  of  being  knocked  down  by  a  porter,  or  run  over  by 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


a  cab,  will  disturb  their  equanimity.  You  will  meet  them  on 
a  fine  day  in  any  of  the  leading  thoroughfares  :  peep  through 
the  window  of  a  west-end  cigar  shop  in  the  evening,  if  you 
can  manage  to  get  a  gUmpse  between  the  blue  curtains  which 
intercept  the  vulgar  gaze,  and  you  see  them  in  their  only  en- 
joyment of  existence.  There  they  are  lounging  about,  on 
round  tubs  and  pipe  boxes,  in  all  the  dignity  of  whiskers,  and 
gilt  watch-guards  ;  whispering  soft  nothings  to  the  young  kdy 
in  amber,  with  the  large  ear-rings,  who,  as  she  sits  behind  the 
counter  in  a  blaze  of  adoration  and  gas-light,  is  the  admira- 
tion  of  all  the  female  servants  in  the  neighborhood,  and  the 
envy  of  every  milliner's  apprentice  within  two  miles  round. 

One  of  our  principal  amusements  is  to  watch  the  gradual 
progress — the  rise  or  fall — of  particular  shops.  We  have 
formed  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  several,  in  different 
parts  of  town,  and  are  perfectly  acquainted  with  their  whole 
history.  We  could  name  off-hand,  twenty  at  least,  which  we 
are  quite  sure  have  paid  no  taxes  for  the  last  six  years.  They 
are  never  inhabited  for  more  than  two  months  consecutively, 
and,  we  verily  believe,  have  witnessed  every  retail  trade  in 
the  directory. 

There  is  one,  whose  history  is  a  sample  of  the  rest,  in 
whose  fate  we  have  taken  especial  interest,  having  had  the 
pleasure  of  knowing  it  ever  since  it  has  been  a  shop.  It  is 
on  the  Surrey  side  of  the  water — a  little  distance  beyond  the 
Marshgate.  It  was  originally  a  substantial,  good-looking  pri- 
vate house  enough  ;  the  landlord  got  into  difficulties,  the 
house  got  into  Chancery,  the  tenant  went  away,  and  the  house 
went  to  ruin.  At  this  period  our  acquaintance  with  it  com- 
menced ;  the  paint  was  all  worn  off  ;  the  windows  were  bro- 
ken, the  area  was  green  with  neglect  and  the  overflowings  of 
the  water-butt  ;  the  butt  itself  was  without  a  lid,  and  the  street- 
door  was  the  very  picture  of  misery.  ^The  chief  pastime  of 
the  children  in  the  vicinity  had  been  to  assemble  in  a  body 
on  the  steps,  and  to  take  it  in  turn  to  knock  loud  double 
knocks  at  the  door,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  the  neighbors 
generally,  and  especially  of  the  nervous  old  lady  next  door 
but  one.  Numerous  complaints  were  made,  and  several  small 
basins  of  water  discharged  over  the  offenders,  but  without 
effect.  In  this  state  of  things,  the  marine-store  dealer  at  the 
corner  of  the  street,  in  the  most  obliging  manner  took  the 
knocker  off,  and  sold  it  :  and  the  unfortunate  house  looked 
more  wretched  than  ever. 


:snui''b-AJ\^D  THEIR  TENANTS, 


411 


We  deserted  our  friend  for  a  few  weeks.  What  v/as  our 
surprise,  on  our  return,  to  find  no  trace  of  its  existence  !  In 
its  place  was  a  handsome  shop,  fast  approaching  to  a  state  of 
completion,  and  on  the  shutters  were  large  bills,  informing 
the  public  that  it  would  shortly  be  opened  with  an  exten- 
sive stock' of  linen  drapery  and  haberdashery."  It  opened  in 
due  course ;  there  was  the  name  of  the  proprietor  "  and 
Co."  in  gilt  letters,  almost  too  dazzling  to  look  at.  Such  rib- 
bons and  shawls  !  and  two  such  elegant  young  men  behind 
the  counter,  each  in  a  clean  collar  and  white  neckcloth, 
like  the  lover  in  a  farce.  As  to  the  proprietor,  he  did 
nothing  but  walk  up  and  down  the  shop,  and  hand  seats 
to  the  ladies,  and  hold  important  conversations  with  the 
handsomest  of  the  young  men,  who  was  shrewdly  suspected 
by  the  neighbors  to  be  the  Co."  We  saw  all  this  with  sor- 
row ;  we  felt  a  fatal  presentiment  that  the  shop  was  doomed — • 
and  so  it  was.  Its  decay  was  slow,  but  sure.  Tickets  gradu- 
ally appeared  in  the  v/indows  ;  then  rolls  of  flannel,  with  la- 
bels on  them,  were  stuck  outside  the  door ;  then  a  bill  was 
pasted  on  the  street-door,  intimating  that  the  first  floor  was  to 
let  ?/;^2furnished  ;  then  one  of  the  young  men  disappeared  al- 
together, and  the  other  took  to  a  black  neckerchief,  and  the 
proprietor  took  to  drinking.  The  shop  became  dirty,  broken 
panes  of  glass  remained  unmended,  and  the  stock  disappeared 
piecemeal.  At  last  the  company's  man  came  to  cut  off  the 
water,  and  then  the  linen-draper  cut  off  himself,  leaving  the 
landlord  his  compliments  and  the  key. 

The  next  occupant  was  a  fancy  stationer.  The  shop  was 
more  modestly  painted  than  before,  still  it  was  neat ;  but 
somehow  we  always  thought,  as  we  passed,  that  it  looked  like 
a  poor  and  struggling  concern.  We  wished  the  man  well,  but 
we  trembled  for  his  success.  He  v/as  a  widower  evidently, 
and  had  employment  elsewhere,  for  he  passed  us  every  morn- 
ing on  his  road  to  the  city.  The  business  was  carried  on  by 
his  eldest  daughter.  Poor  girl  !  she  needed  no  assistance. 
We  occasionally  caught  a  glimpse  of  two  or  three  children,  in 
mourning  like  herself,  as  they  sat  in  the  little  parlor  behind 
the  shop ;  and  we  never  passed  at  night  without  seeing  the 
eldest  girl  at  work,  either  for  them,  or  in  making  some  elegant 
little  trifle  for  sale.  We  often  thought,  as  her  pale  face  looked 
more  sad  and  pensive  in  the  dim  candle-light,  that  if  those 
thoughtless  females  who  interfere  with  the  miserable  market 
of  poor  creatures  such  as  these,  knew  but  one  half  of  the 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


misery  they  suffer,  and  the  bitter  privations  they  endure,  in 
their  honorable  attempts  to  earn  a  scanty  subsistence,  they 
would,  perhaps,  resign  even  opportunities  for  the  gratification 
of  vanity,  and  an  immodest  love  of  self-display,  rather  than 
drive  them  to  a  last  dreadful  resource,  which  it  would  shock 
the  delicate  feelings  of  these  charitable  ladies  to  hear  named. 

But  we  are  forgetting  the  shop.  Well,  we  continued  to 
jwatch  it,  and  every  day  showed  too  clearly  the  increasing  pov- 
erty of  its  inmates.  The  children  were  clean,  it  is  true,  but 
their  clothes  were  threadbare  and  shabby ;  no  tenant  had 
been  procured  for  the  upper  part  of  the  house,  from  the  let- 
ting of  which,  a  portion  of  the  means  of  paying  the  rent  was 
to  have  been  derived,  and  a  slow,  wasting^onsumption  pre- 
vented the  eldest  girl  from  continuing  her  exertions.  Quar- 
ter-day arrived.  The  landlord  had  suffered  from  the  extrava 
gance  of  his  last  tenant,  and  he  had  no  compassion  for  the 
struggles  of  his  successor ;  he  put  in  an  execution.  As 
we  passed  one  morning,  the  broker's  men  were  removing 
the  little  furniture  there  was  in  the  house,  and  a  newly-posted 
bill  informed  us  it  was  again  To  Let."  What  became  of 
the  last  tenant  we  never  could  learn  ;  we  believe  the  girl  is 
past  all  suffering,  and  beyond  all  sorrow.  God  help  her  !  We 
hope  she  is.  ^ 

We  were  somewhat  curious  to  ascertain  what  would  be  the 
next  stage — for  that  the  place  had  no  chance  of  succeeding 
now,  was  perfectly  clear.  The  bill  was  soon  taken  down,  and 
some  alteratioYis,  were  being  made  in  the  interior  of  the  shop. 
We  were  in  a  fever  of  expectation  ;  we  exhausted  conjecture — 
we  imagined  all  possible  trades,  none  of  which  were  perfectly 
reconcilable,  with  our  idea  of  the  gradual  decay  of  the  tene- 
ment. It  opened,  and  we  wondered  why  we  had  not  guessed 
at  the  real  state  of  the  case  before.  The  shop — not  a  large 
one  at  the  best  of  times — had  been  converted  into  two  :  one 
was  a  bonnet-shape  maker's,  the  other  was  opened  by  a 
tobacconist,  who  also  dealt  in  walking-sticks  and  Sunday 
newspapers ;  the  two  were  separated  by  a  thin  partition, 
covered  with  tawdry  striped  paper. 

The  tobacconist  remained  in  possession  longer  than  any 
tenant  within  our  recollection.  He  was  a  red-faced,  impu- 
dent, good-for-nothing  dog,  evidently  accustomed  to  take 
things  as  they  came,  and  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job.  Fie 
sold  as  many  cigars  as  he  could,  and  smoked  the  rest.  He 
occupied  the  shop  as  long  as  he  could  make  peace  with  the 


SCOTLAND'  YARD. 


413 


fandlord,  and  when  he  could  no  longer  live  in  quiet,  he  very 
coolly  locked  the  door,  and  bolted  himself.  From  this  period 
the  two  little  dens  have  undergone  innumerable  changes, 
The  tobacconist  was  succeeded  by  a  theatrical  hair-dresser, 
who  ornamented  the  window  with  a  great  variety  of  "  charac- 
ters," and  terrific  combats.  The  bonnet-shape  maker  gave 
place  to  a  green-grocer,  and  the  histrionic  barber  was  suc- 
ceeded, in  his  turn,  by  a  tailor.  So  numerous  have  been  the 
changes,  that  we  have  of  late  done  little  more  than  mark  the 
peculiar  but  certain  indications  of  a  house  being  poorly  in- 
habited. It  has  been  progressing  by  almost  imperceptible 
degrees.  The  occupiers  of  the  shops  have  gradually  given 
up  room  after  room,  until  they  have  only  reserved  the  little 
parlor  for  themselves.  First  there  appeared  a  brass  plate  on 
the  private  door,  with  "  Ladies'  School  "  legibly  engraved 
thereon  ;  shortly  afterwards  we  observed  a  second  brass  plate, 
then  a  bell,  and  then  another  bell. 

When  we  paused  in  front  of  our  old  friend,  and  observed 
these  signs  of  poverty,  which  are  not  to  be  mistaken,  we 
thought  as  we  turned  away,  that  the  house  had  attained  its 
lowest  pitch  of  degradation.  We  were  wrong.  When  we 
last  passed  it,  a  dairy  "  was  established  in  the  area,  and  a 
party  of  melancholy-looking  fowis  were  amusing  themselves  by 
running  in  at  the  front  door,  and  out  at  the  back  one. 


CHAPTER  IV, 

SCOTLAND- YARD. 

Scotland- YARD  is  a  small — a  very  small — tract  of  land, 
bounded  on  one  side  by  the  river  Thames,  on  the  other  by 
the  gardens  of  Northumberland  House  :  abutting  at  one  end 
on  the  bottom  of  Northumberland-street,  at  the  other  on  the 
back  of  Whitehall-place.  When  this  territory  was  first  acci- 
dentally discovered  by  a  country  gentleman  who  lost  his  way 
in  the  Strand,  some  years  ago,  the  original  settlers  were  found 
to  be  a  tailor,  a  publican,  two  eating-house  keepers,  and  a 
fruit-pie  maker ;  and  it  was  also  found  to  contain  a  race  of 
strong  and  bulky  men,  who  repaired  to  the  wharfs  in  Scotland- 
yard  regularly  every  morning,  about  five  or  six  o'clock,  to  fill 
heavy  wagons  with  coal,  with  which  they  proceeded  to  dis- 


4 :  4  ^^'^^^  TCIIES  B  Y  BOZ.  ^ 

tant  placer,  up  the  country,  and  supplied  the  inhabitants  with 
fuel.  WliGii  lliey  liad  emptied  their  wagons,  they  again  re- 
turned for  a  fresh  supply ;  and  this  trade  was  continued 
throughout  the  year. 

As  the  settlers  derived  their  subsistence  from  ministering 
to  tlie  wants  of  these  primitive  traders,  the  articles  exposed 
for  sale,  and  the  places  where  they  were  sold,  bore  strong 
outward  marks  of  being  expressly  adapted  to  their  tastes  and 
v/ishes.  The  tailor  displayed  in  his  window  a  Lilliputian  pair 
of  leather  gaiters,  and  a  diminutive  round  frock,  while  each 
doorpost  was  appropriately  garnished  with  a  model  of  a  coal- 
sack.  The  two  eating-house  keepers  exhibited  joints  of  a 
magnitude,  and  puddings  of  a  solidity,  which  coalheavers 
alone  could  appreciate  ;  and  the  fruit-pie  maker  displayed  on 
his  v/ell-scrubbed  window-board  large  white  compositions  of 
flour  and  dripping,  ornamented  with  pink  stains,  giving  rich 
promise  of  the  fruit  within,  which  made  their  huge  mouths 
water,  as  they  lingered  past. 

But  the  choicest  spot  in  all  Scotland -yard  was  the  old 
public-house  in  the  corner.  Here,  in  a  dark  wainscoted-room 
of  ancient  appearance,  cheered  by  the  glow  of  a  m.ighty  fire, 
and  decorated  with  an  enormous  clock,  whereof  the  face  was 
white,  and  the  figures  black,  sat  tlie  lusty  coalheavers,  quaffing 
large  draughts  of  Barclay's  best,  and  puffing  forth  volumes  of 
smoke,  which  wreathed  heavily  above  their  heads,  and  in- 
volved the  room  in  a  thick  dark  cloud.  From  this  apartment 
might  their  voices  be  heard  on  a  winter's  night,  penetrating 
to  the  very  bank  of  the  river,  as  they  shouted  out  some  sturdy 
chorus,  or  roared  forth  the  burden  of  a  popular  song  :  dwelling 
upon  the  last  few  words  with  a  strength  and  length  of  em- 
phasis which  made  the  very  roof  tremble  above  them. 

Here,  too,  would  they  tell  old  legends  of  what  the  Thames 
was  in  ancient  times,  when  the  Patent  Shot  Manufactory 
wasn't  built,  and  Waterloo-bridge  had  never  been  thought  of  ^ 
and  then  they  would  shake  their  heads  with  portentous  looks^ 
to  the  deep  edification  of  the  rising  generation  of  heavers,  who 
crowded  round  them,  and  wondered  where  all  this  would  end  ; 
whereat  the  tailor  would  take  his  pipe  solemnly  from  his 
mouth,  and  say,  how  that  he  hoped  it  might  end  well,  but  he 
very  much  doubted  whether  it  would  or  not,  and  couldn't 
rightly  tell  what  to  make  of  it — a  mysterious  expression  of 
opinion,  delivered  with  a  semi-prophetic  air,  which  never 
failed  to  elicit  the  fullest  concurrence  of  the  assembled  com* 


SCO  TLAND-  YARD. 


pany ;  and  so  they  would  go  on  drinking  and  wondering  till 
ten  o'clock  came,  and  with  it  the  tailor's  wife  to  fetch  him 
home,  when  the  little  party  broke  up,  to  meet  again  in  the 
same  room,  and  say  and  do  precisely  the  same  things,  on  the 
following  evening  at  the  same  hour. 

About  this  time  the  barges  that  came  up  the  river  began 
to  bring  vague  rumors  to  Scotland-yard  of  somebody  in  the  city 
having  been  heard  to  say,  that  the  Lord  Mayor  had  threat-  ^ 
ened  in  so  many  words  to  pull  down  the  old  London-bridge,  and  ' 
build  up  a  new  one.  At  first  these  rumors  were  disregarded 
as  idle  tales,  wholly  destitute  of  foundation,  for  nobody  in 
Scotland-yard  doubted  that  if  the  Lord  Mayor  contemplated 
any  such  dark  design,  he  would  just  be  clapped  up  in  the 
Tower  for  a  week  or  two,  and  then  killed  off  for  high  treason. 

By  degrees,  however,  the  reports  grew  stronger,  and  more 
frequent,  and  at  last  a  barge,  laden  with  numerous  chaldrons 
of  the  best  Wallsend,  brought  up  the  positive  intelligence  thar 
several  of  the  arches  of  the  old  bridge  were  stopped,  and  that 
preparations  were  actually  in  progress  for  constructing  the 
new  one.  What  an  excitement  was  visible  in  the  old  tap-roomi 
on  that  memorable  night !  Each  man  looked  into  his  neigh- 
bor's face,  pale  with  alarm  and  astonishment,  and  read  therein 
an  echo  of  the  sentiments  which  filled  his  own  breast.  The 
oldest  heaver  present  proved  to  demonstration,  that  the 
moment  the  piers  were  removed,  all  the  water  in  the  Thames 
would  run  clean  off,  and  leave  a  dry  gully  in  its  place.  What 
was  to  become  of  the  coal-barges — of  the  trade  of  Scotland- 
yard — of  the  very  existence  of  its  population  ?  The  tailor 
shook  his  head  more  sagely  than  usual,  and  grimly  pointing 
to  a  knife  on  the  table,  bid  them  wait  and  see  what  happened. 
He  said  nothing — not  he  ;  but  if  the  Lord  Mayor  didn't  fall  a 
victim  to  popular  indignation,  why  he  would  be  rather 
astonisLt-d  ;  that  was  all. 

They  did  wait ;  barge  after  barge  arrived,  and  still  no 
tidings  of  the  assassination  of  the  Lord  Mayor.  The  first 
stone  was  laid  :  it  was  done  by  a  Duke — the  King's  brother. 
Years  passed  away,  and  the  bridge  was  opened  by  the  King 
himself.  In  course  of  time,  the  piers  were  removed  ;  and 
when  the  people  in  Scotland-yard  got  up  next  morning  in  the 
confident  expectation  of  being  able  to  step  over  to  Pedlar's 
Acre  without  wetting  the  soles  of  their  shoes,  they  found  to 
their  unspeakable  astonishment  that  the  water  was  just  where 
it  used  to  be. 


410 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 


A  result  so  different  from  that  which  they  had  anticipated 
from  this  first  improvement,  produced  its  full  effect  upon  the 
inhabitants  of  Scotland-yard.  One  of  the  eating-house  keepers 
began  to  court  public  opinion,  and  to  look  for  customers 
among  a  new  class  of  people.  He  covered  his  little  dining- 
tables  with  white  cloths,  and  got  a  painter's  apprentice  to 
inscribe  something  about  hot  joints  from  twelve  to  two,  in  one 
ot  the  little  panes  of  his  shop-window.  Improvement  began 
to  march  with  rapid  strides  to  the  very  threshold  of  Scotland- 
yard.  A  new  market  sprung  up  at  Hungerford,  and  the 
Police  Commissioners  established  their  office  in  Whitehall- 
place.  The  traffic  in  Scotland-yard  increased  ;  fresh  Members 
w^ere  added  to  the  House  of  Commons,  the  Metropolitan  Re- 
presentatives found  it  a  near  cut,  and  many  other  foot  pas- 
sengers followed  their  example. 

We  marked  the  advance  of  civilization,  and  beheld  it  with 
a  sigh.  The  eating-house  keeper  who  manfully  resisted  the 
innovation  of  table-cloths,  was  losing  ground  every  day,  as  his 
opponent  gained  it,  and  a  deadly  feud  sprung  up  between 
them.  The  genteel  one  no  longer  took  his  evening's  pint  in 
Scotland-yard,  but  drank  gin  and  water  at  a  "  parlor "  in 
Parliament-street.  The  fruit-pie  maker  still  continued  to  visit 
the  old  room,  but  he  took  to  smoking  cigars,  and  began  to  call 
himself  a  pastrycook,  and  to  read  the  papers.  The  old 
heavers  still  assembled  round  the  ancient  fireplace,  but  their 
talk  was  mournful :  and  the  loud  song  and  the  joyous  shout 
were  heard  no  more. 

And  what  is  Scotland-yard  now!  How  have  its  old 
customs  changed  ;  and  how  has  the  ancient  simplicity  of  its 
inhabitants  faded  away  !  The  old  tottering  public-house  is 
converted  into  a  spacious  and  lofty  "  wine-vaults  ;  "  gold  leaf 
has  been  used  in  the  construction  of  the  letters  which 
emblazon  its  exterior,  and  the  poet's  art  has  been  called  into 
requisition,  to  intimate  that  if  you  drink  a  certain  description 
of  ale,  you  must  hold  fast  by  the  rail.  The  tailor  exhibits  in 
his  window  the  pattern  of  a  foreign-looking  brown  surtout, 
with  silk  buttons,  a  fur  collar,  and  fur  cuffs.  He  wears  a 
stripe  down  the  outside  of  each  leg  of  his  trousers  :  and  we 
nave  detected  his  assistants  (for  he  has  assistants  now)  in  the 
act  of  sitting  on  the  shop-board  in  the  same  uniform. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  little  row  of  houses  a  boot-maker 
has  established  himself  in  a  brick  box,  with  the  additional  in- 
novation of  a  first  floor  ;  and  here  he  exposes  for  sale,  boots 


SEVEN  DIALS, 


417 


—real  Wellington  boots — an  article  which  a  few  years  ago, 
none  of  the  original  inhabitants  had  ever  seen  or  heard  of.  It 
was  but  the  other  day,  that  a  dress-maker  opened  another  little 
box  in  the  middle  of  the  row  ;  and,  when  we  thought  that  the 
spirit  of  change  could  produce  no  alteration  beyond  that,  a 
jeweller  appeared,  and  not  content  with  exposing  gilt  rings 
and  copper  bracelets  out  of  number,  put  up  an  announcement, 
which  still  sticks  in  this  window,  that  ^'  ladies'  ears  may  be 
pierced  within."  The  dress-maker  employs  a  young  lady  who 
wears  pockets  in  her  apron  ;  and  the  tailor  informs  the  public 
that  gentlemen  may  have  their  own  materials  made  up. 

Amidst  all  this  change,  and  restlessness,  and  innovation, 
there  remains  but  one  old  man,  who  seems  to  mourn  the  down- 
fall of  this  ancient  place.  He  holds  no  converse  with  human 
kind,  but,  seated  ofi  a  wooden  bench  at  the  angle  of  the  wall 
which  fronts  the  crossing  from  Whitehall-place,  watches  in 
silence  the  gambols  of  his  sleek  and  well-fed  dogs.  He  is 
the  presiding  genius  of  Scotland-yard.  Years  and  years  have 
rolled  over  his  head ;  but,  in  fine  weather  or  in  foul,  hot  or 
cold,  wet  or  dry,  hail,  rain,  or  snow,  he  is  still  in  his  ac- 
customed spot.  Misery  and  want  are  depicted  in  his  counte- 
nance ;  his  form  is  bent  by  age,  his  head  is  gray  with  length  of 
trial,  but  there  he  sits  from  day  to  day,  brooding  over  the  past ; 
and  thither  he  will  continue  to  drag  his  feeble  limbs,  until  his 
eyes  have  closed  upon  Scotland-yard,  and  upon  the  world  to- 
gether. 

A  few  years  hence,  and  the  antiquary  of  another  genera- 
tion looking  into  some  mouldy  record  of  the  strife  and  passions 
that  agitated  the  world  in  these  times,  may  glance  his  eye  over 
the  pages  we  have  just  filled  :  and  not  all  his  knowledge  of 
the  history  of  the  past,  not  all  his  black-letter  lore,  or  his  skill 
in  book-collecting,  not  all  the  dry  studies  of  a  long  life,  or  the 
dusty  volumes  that  have  cost  him  a  fortune,  may  help  him  to 
the  whereabouts,  either  of  Scotland-yard,  or  of  any  one  of  the 
landmarks  we  have  mentioned  in  describing  it. 


CHAPTER  V. 

SEVEN  DIALS. 

We  have  always  been  of  opinion  that  if  Tom  King  and  the 
Frenchman  had  not  immortalized  Seven  Dials,  Seven  Dials 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


would  have  immortalized  itself.  Seven  Dials  !  the  region  oX 
song  and  poetry — first  effusions,  and  last  dying  speeches - 
hallowed  by  the  names  of  Catnach  and  of  Pitts — names  thai 
will  entwine  themselves  with  costermongers,  and  barrel-organs, 
when  penny  magazines  shall  have  superseded  penny  yards  o/ 
song,  and  capital  punishment  be  unknown ! 

Look  at  the  construction  of  the  place.  The  gordian  knot 
was  all  very  well  in  its  way  :  so  was  the  maze  of  Hampton 
Court :  so  is  the  maze  at  the  Beulah  Spa  :  so  were  the  ties  of 
stiff  white  neckcloths,  when  the  difficulty  of  getting  one  on 
was  only  to  be  equalled  by  the  apparent  impossibility  of  ever 
getting  it  off  again.  But  what  involutions  can  compare  with 
those  of  Seven  Dials  1  Where  is  there  such  another  maze  of 
streets,  courts,  lanes,  and  alleys  ?  Where  such  a  pure  mix- 
ture of  Englishmen  and  Irishmen,  as  in  this  complicated  part 
of  London  ?  W^e  boldly  aver  that  we  doubt  the  veracity  of  the 
legend  to  which  we  have  adverted.  We  ca7t  suppose  a  man 
rash  enough  to  enquire  at  random — at  a  house  with  lodgers 
too — for  a  Mr.  Thompson,  with  all  but  the  certainty  before 
his  eyes,  of  finding  at  least  two  or  three  Thompsons  in  any 
house  of  moderate  dimensions  ;  but  a  Frenchman — a  French- 
man in  Seven  Dials  !  Pooh  '  He  was  an  Irishman.  Tom 
King's  education  had  been  neglected  in  his  infancy,  and  as  he 
couldn't  understand  half  the  man  said,  he  took  it  for  granted 
he  was  talking  French. 

The  stranger  who  finds  himself  in  The  Dials  "  for  the 
first  time,  and  stands  Belzoni-like,  at  the  entrance  of  seven 
obscure  passages,  uncertain  which  to  take,  will  see  enough 
around  him  to  keep  his  curiosity  and  attention  awake  for  no 
inconsiderable  time.  From  the  irregular  square  into  which  he 
has  plunged,  the  streets  and  courts  dart  in  all  directions,  until 
they  are  lost  in  the  unwholesome  vapor  which  hangs  over  the 
house-tops,  and  renders  the  dirty  perspective  uncertain  and 
confined;  and  lounging  at  every  corner,  as  if  they  came  there 
to  take  a  few  gasps  of  such  fresh  air  as  has  found  its  way  so 
far,  but  is  too  much  exhausted  already,  to  be  enabled  to  force 
itself  into  the  narrow  alleys  around,  are  groups  of  people, 
whose  appearance  and  dwellings  would  fill  any  mind  but  a 
regular  Londoner's  with  astonishment. 

On  one  side,  a  little  crowd  has  collected  round  a  couple  oi 
;adies,  who  having  imbibed  the  contents  of  various  "  three 
outs  "  of  gin  and  bitters  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  have  z\ 
length  differed  on  some  point  of  dcjnestic  arrangement,  an-i 


SEVEN  DIALS. 


419 


are  on  the  eve  of  settling  the  quarrel  satisfactorily,  by  an 
appeal  to  blov/s,  greatly  to  the  interest  of  other  ladies  who 
live  in  the  same  house,  and  tenements  adjoining,  and  who  are 
all  partisans  on  one  side  or  other. 

"  Vy  don't  you  pitch  into  her,  Sarah  ?  exclaims  one  half- 
dressed  matron,  by  w^ay  of  encouragement.  Vy  don't  you  ? 
if  my  'usband  had  treated  her  with  a  drain  last  night,  unbe- 
known to  me,  I'd  tear  her  precious  eyes  out — a  wixen  !  '' 

"  What's  the  matter,  ma'am  ? "  inquires  another  old  woman, 
who  had  just  bustled  up  to  the  spot. 

"  Matter  !  "  replies  the  first  speaker,  talking  at  the  obnox- 
ious combatant,  "  matter  !  Here's  poor  dear  Mrs.  Sulliwin, 
as  had  five  blessed  children  of  her  own,  can't  ger out  a  charing 
for  one  arternoon,  but  what  hussies  must  be  a  comin',  and 
'ticing  avay  her  oun'  'usband,  as  she's  been  married  to  twelve 
year  come  next  Easter  Monday,  for  I  see  the  certificate  ven 
I  vas  a  drinkin'  a  cup  o'  tea  vith  her,  only  the  werry  last 
blessed  Ven'sday  as  ever  was  sent.  I  'appen'd  to  say  promis- 
cuously, *  Mrs.  Sulliwin,'  says  I  " 

*^  What  do  you  mean  by  hussies  ?  "  interrupts  a  champion 
of  the  other  party,  wdio  has  evinced  a  strong  inclination 
throughout  to  get  up  a  branch  fight  on  her  own  account 
Hooroar,"  ejaculates  a  pot-boy  in  parenthesis,  put  the 
kye-bosk  on  her,  Mary  !  ")  What  do  you  mean  by  hussies  ?  " 
reiterates  the  champion. 

"Niver  mind,"  replies  the  opposition  expressively,  ^^niver 
mind ;  you  go  home,  and,  ven  you're  quite  sober,  mend  your 
stockings." 

This  somewhat  personal  allusion,  not  only  to  the  lady's 
habits  of  intemperance,  but  also  to  the  state  of  her  wardrobe, 
rouses  her  utmost  ire,  and  she  accordingly  complies  with  the 
urgent  request  of  the  bystanders  to  "pitch  in,"  wdth  consider- 
able alacrity.  The  scufile  became  general,  and  terminates,  in 
minor  play-bill  phraseology,  with  "  arrival  of  the  policemen, 
interior  of  the  station-house,  and  impressive  denouement ^ 

In  addition  to  the  numerous  groups  who  are  idling  about 
the  gin-shops  and  squabbling  in  the  centre  of  the  road,  every 
post  in  the  open  space  has  its  occupant,  who  leans  against  it 
for  hours,  with  listless  perseverance.  It  is  odd  enough  that 
one  class  of  men  in  London  appear  to  have  no  enjoyment 
beyond  leaning  against  posts.  We  never  saw  a  regular  brick- 
layer's laborer  take  any  other  recreation,  fighting  excepted. 
Pass  through  St.  Giles's  in  the  evening  of  a  week-day,  there 


420 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


they  are  m  their  fustian  dresses,  spotted  with  brick-dust  and 
whitewash,  leaning  against  posts.  Walk  through  Seven  Dials 
on  Sunday  morning :  there  they  are  again,  drab  or  light 
corduroy  trousers,  Blucher  boots,  blue  coats,  and  great  yellow 
waistcoats,  leaning  against  posts.  The  idea  of  a  man  dressing 
himself  in  his  best  clothes,  to  lean  against  a  post  all  day ! 

The  peculiar  character  of  these  streets,  and  the  close 
resemblance  each  one  bears  to  its»neighbor,  by  no  means  tends 
to  decrease  the  bewilderment  in  which  the  unexperienced  way- 
farer through  "  the  Dials  finds  himself  involved.  He  traverses 
streets  of  dirty,  straggling  houses,  with  now  and  then  an  un- 
expected court  composed  of  buildings  as  ill-proportioned  and 
deformed  as  the  half-naked  children  that  wallow  in  the  ken- 
nels. Here  and  there,  a  little  dark  chandler's  shop,  with  a 
cracked  bell  hung  up  behind  the  door  to  announce  the  entrance 
of  a  customer,  or  betray  the  presence  of  some  young  gentle- 
man in  whom  a  passion  for  shop  tills  has  developed  itself  at 
an  early  age  :  others,  as  if  for  support,  against  some  handsome 
lofty  building,  which  usurps  the  place  of  a  low  dingy  public- 
house;  long  rows  of  broken  and  patched  windows  expose 
plants  that  may  have  flourished  when  the  Dials  ''were  built, 
in  vessels  as  dirty  as  "  the  Dials  "  themselves  ;  and  shops  for 
the  purchase  of  rags,  bones,  old  iron,  and  kitchen-stuff,  vie 
in  cleanliness  with  the  bird-fanciers  and  rabbit-dealers,  which 
one  might  fancy  so  many  arks,  but  for  the  irresistible  convic- 
tion that  no  bird  in  its  proper  senses,*  who  was  permitted  to 
leave  one  of  them,  would  ever  come  back  again.  Brokers' 
shops,  which  would  seem  to  have  been  established  by  humane 
individuals,  as  refuges  for  destitute  bugs,  interspersed  with 
announcements  of  day  schools,  penny  theatres,  petition-writers, 
'mangles,  and  music  for  balls  or  routs,  complete  the  still  life  " 
of  the  subjects  ;  and  dirty  men,  filthy  women,  squalid  children, 
fluttering  shuttlecocks,  noisy  battledores,  reeking  pipes,  bad 
fruit,  more  than  doubtful  oysters,  attenuated  cats,  depressed 
dogs,  and  anatomical  fowls,  are  its  cheerful  accompaniments. 

If  the  external  appearance  of  the  houses,  or  a  glance  at 
their  inhabitants,  present  but  few  attractions,  a  closer  ac- 
quaintance with  either  is  little  calculated  to  alter  one's  first 
impression.  Every  room  has  its  separate  tenant,  and  every 
tenant  is,  by  the  same  mysterious  dispensation  which  causes 
a  country  curate  to  "  increase  and  multiply "  most  marvel- 
lously, generally  the  head  of  a  numerous  family. 

The  man  in  the  shop,  perhaps,  is  in  the  baked  "  jemmy 


SEVEN  DIALS. 


line,  or  the  fire-wood  and  hearth-stone  line,  or  any  other  line 
which  requires  a  floating  capital  of  eighteen-pence  or  there- 
abouts :  and  he  and  his  family  live  in  the  shop,  and  the  small 
back  parlor  behind  it.  Then  there  is  an  Irish  laborer  and///^ 
family  in  the  back  kitchen,  and  a  jobbing  man — carpet-beater 
and  so  forth — with  his  family  in  the  front  one.  In  the  front 
one-pair,  there's  another  man  with  another  wife  and  family, 
and  in  the  back  one-pair,  there's  a  young  'oman,  as  takes  in 
tambour-work,  and  dresses  quite  genteel,"  who  talks  a  good 
deal  about  *^my  friend,"  and  can't  "a-bear  anything  low."  The 
second  floor  front,  and  the  rest  of  the  lodgers,  are  just  a 
second  edition  of  the  people  below,  except  a  shabby-genteel 
man  in  the  back  attic,  who  has  his  half-pint  of  coffee  every 
morning  from  the  coffee-shop  next  door  but  one,  which  boasts 
a  little  front  den  called  a  coffee-room,  with  a  fire-place,  over 
which  is  an  inscription,  politely  requesting  that,  "to  prevent 
mistakes,"  customers  will  please  to  pay  on  delivery."  The 
shabby-genteel  man  is  an  object  of  some  mystery,  but  as  he  leads 
a  life  of  seclusion,  and  never  was  known  to  buy  anything  be- 
yond an  occasional  pen,  except  half-pints  of  coffee,  penny 
loaves,  and  ha'porths  of  ink,  his  fellow-lodgers  very  naturally 
suppose  him  to  be  an  author ;  and  rumors  are  current  in  the 
Dials,  that  he  writes  poems  for  Mr.  Warren. 

Now  anybody  who  passed  through  the  Dials  on  a  hot 
summer's  evening,  and  saw  the  different  women  of  the  house 
gossiping  on  the  steps,  would  be  apt  to  think  that  all  was 
harmony  among  them,  and  that  a  more  primitive  set  of  peo- 
ple than  the  native  Diallers  could  not  be  imagined.  Alas  ! 
the  man  in  the  shop  illtreats  his  family  ;  the  carpet-beater 
extends  his  professional  pursuits  to  his  wife  ;  the  one-pair 
front  has  an  undying  feud  with  the  two-pair  front,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  two-pair  front  persisting  in  dancing  over  his 
(the  one-pair  front's)  head,  when  he  and  his  family  have  re- 
tired for  the  night  ;  the  two-pair  back  will  interfere  with  the 
front  kitchen's  children ;  the  Irishman  comes  home  drunk 
every  other  night,  and  attacks  everybody;  and  the  one-pair 
back  screams  at  everything.  Animosities  spring  up  between 
floor  and  floor  ;  the  very  cellar  asserts  this  equality.  Mrs.  A. 
"smacks  "  Mrs.  B.'s  child,  for  "making  faces."  Mrs.  B.  forth- 
with  throws  cold  water  over  Mrs.  A.'s  child  for  "  calling 
names."  The  husbands  are  embroiled — the  quarrel  becomes 
general — an  assault  is  the  consequence,  and  a  police-oflicer 
the  result. 


At2 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MEDITATIONS  IN  MONMOUTH-STREET. 

We  have  always  entertained  a  particular  attachment  to«^ 
wards  Monmouth-street,  as  the  only  true  and  real  emporium 
for  second-hand  wearing  apparel.  Monmouth-street  is  ven- 
erable from  its  antiquity,  and  respectable  from  its  usefulness. 
Holywell-street  we  despise  ;  the  red-headed  and  red-whiskered 
Jews  who  forcibly  haul  you  into  their  squalid  houses,  and 
thrust  you  into  a  suit  of  clothes,  whether  you  will  or  not,  we 
detest. 

The  inhabitants  of  Monmouth-street  are  a  distinct  class ; 
a  peaceable  and  retiring  race,  who  immure  themselves  for  the 
most  part  in  deep  cellars,  or  small  back  parlors,  and  who 
seldom  come  forth  into  the  world,  except  in  the  dusk  and 
coolness  of  the  evening,  when  they  may  be  seen  seated,  in 
chairs  on  the  pavement,  smoking  their  pipes,  or  watching  the 
gambols  of  their  engaging  children  as  they  revel  in  the  gutter, 
a  happy  troop  of  infantine  scavengers.  Their  countenances 
bear  a  thoughtful  and  a  dirty  cast,  certain  indications  of  their 
love  of  traffic  ;  and  their  habitations  are  distinguished  by  that 
disregard  of  outward  appearance  and  neglect  of  personal 
comfort,  so  common  among  people  who  are  constantly  im- 
mersed in  profound  speculations,  and  deeply  engaged  in 
sedentary  pursuits. 

We  have  hinted  at  the  antiquity  of  our  favorite  spot.  "  A 
Monmouth-street  laced  coat was  a  by-word  a  century  ago  ; 
and  still  we  find  Monmouth-street  the  same.  Pilot  greatcoats 
with  wooden  buttons,  have  usurped  the  place  of  the  ponderous 
laced  coats  with  full  skirts  ;  embroidered  waistcoats  with 
large  flaps,  have  yielded  to  double-breasted  checks  with  roll- 
collars  ;  and  three-cornered  hats  of  quaint  appearance,  have 
given  place  to  the  low  crowns  and  broad  brims  of  the  coach- 
man school  ;  but  it  is  the  times  that  have  changed,  not 
Monmouth-street.  Through  every  alteration  and  every  change, 
Monmouth-street  has  still  remained  the  burial-place  of  the  fash- 
ions; and  such,  to  judge  from  all  present  appearances,  it  will 
remain  until  there  are  no  more  fashions  to  bury. 

We  love  to  walk  among  these  extensive  groves  of  the 
illustrious  dead,  and  to  indulge  in  the  speculationg  to  which 


MEDITATIONS  IN  MONMOUTII-STREET 


423 


they  give  rise  ;  now  fitting  a  deceased  coat,  then  a  dead  pair 
of  trousers,  and  anon  the  mortal  remains  of  a  gaudy  waist- 
coat, upon  some  being  of  our  own  conjuring  up,  and  endeavor- 
ing, from  the  shape  and  fashion  of  the  garment  itself,  to  bring 
its  former  owner  before  our  mind's  eye.  We  have  gone  on 
speculating  in  this  way,  until  whole  rows  of  coats  have  started 
from  their  pegs  and  buttoned  up,  of  their  own  accord,  round 
the  waists  of  imaginary  wearers ;  lines  of  trousers  have 
jumped  down  to  meet  them ;  waistcoats  have  almost  burst 
with  anxiety  to  put  themselves  on ;  and  half  an  acre  of  shoes 
have  suddenly  found  feet  to  fit  them,  and  gone  stumping  down 
the  street  with  a  noise  which  has  fairly  awakened  us  from  our 
pleasant  reverie,  and  driven  us  slowly  away,  with  a  bewildered 
stare,  an  object  of  astonishment  to  the  good  people  of  Mon- 
mouth-street,  and  of  no  slight  suspicion  to  the  policemen  at 
the  opposite  street  corner. 

We  were  occupied  in  this  manner  the  other  day,  endeavor- 
ing to  fit  a  pair  of  lace-up  half-boots  on  an  ideal  personage, 
for  whom  to  say  the  truth,  they  were  full  a  couple  of  sizes  too 
small,  when  our  eyes  happened  to  alight  on  a  few  suits  of 
clothes  ranged  outside  a  shop-window,  which  it  immediately 
struck  us,  must  at  different  periods  have  all  belonged  to,  and 
been  worn  by,  the  same  individual,  and  had  now,  by  one  of 
those  strange  conjunctions  of  circumstances  which  will  occur 
sometimes,  come  to  be  exposed  together  for  sale  in  the  same 
shop.  The  idea  seemed  a  fantastic  one,  and  we  looked  at 
the  clothes  again  with  a  firm  determination  not  to  be  easily 
led  away.  No,  we  were  right ;  the  more  we  looked,  the  more 
we  were  convinced  of  the  accuracy  of  our  previous  impression. 
There  was  the  man's  whole  life  written  as  legibly  on  those 
clothes,  as  if  we  had  his  autobiography  engrossed  on  parch- 
ment before  us. 

The  first  was  a  patched  and  much-soiled  skeleton  suit  ; 
one  of  those  straight  blue  cloth  cases  in  which  small  boys 
used  to  be  confined,  before  belts  and  tunics  had  come  in,  and 
old  notions  had  gone  out  j  an  ingenious  contrivance  for  dis- 
playing the  full  symmetry  of  a  boy's  figure,  by  fastening  him 
into  a  very  tight  jacket,  with  an  ornamental  row  of  buttons 
over  each  shoulder,  and  then  buttoning  his  trousers  over  it, 
so  as  to  give  his  legs  the  appearance  of  being  hooked  on,  just 
under  the  armpits.  This  was  the  boy's  dress.  It  had  be- 
longed to  a  town  boy,  we  could  see  ;  there  was  a  shortness 
about  the  legs  and  arms  of  the  suit ;  and  a  bagging  at  the 


424 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


knees,  peculiar  to  the  rising  youth  of  London  streets.  A 
small  day-school  he  had  been  at,  evidently.  If  it  had  been 
a  regular  boys'  school  they  wouldn't  have  let  him  play  on  the 
floor  so  much,  and  rub  his  knees  so  white.  He  had  an  in- 
dulgent mother  too,  and  plenty  of  halfpence,  as  the  numerous 
smears  of  some  sticky  substance  about  the  pockets,  and  just 
below  the  chin,  which  even  the  salesma^n's  skill  could  not  suc- 
ceed in  disguising,  sufficiently  betokened.  They  were  decent 
people,  but  not  overburdened  with  riches,  or  he  would  not 
have  so  far  out-grown  the  suit  when  he  passed  into  those  cor- 
duroys with  the  round  jacket ;  in  which  he  went  to  a  boys' 
school,  however,  and  learnt  to  write — and  in  ink  of  pretty 
tolerable  blackness,  too,  if  the  place  where  he  used  to  wipe 
his  pen  might  be  taken  as  evidence. 

A  black  suit  and  the  jacket  changed  into  a  diminutive 
coat.  His  father  had  died,  and  the  mother  had  got  the  boy  a 
message-lad's  place  in  some  office.  A  long-worn  suit  that 
one  ;  rusty  and  threadbare  before  it  was  laid  aside,  but  clean 
and  free  from  soil  to  the  last.  Poor  woman  !  We  could  im- 
agine her  assumed  cheerfulness  over  the  scanty  meal,  and 
the  refusal  of  her  own  small  portion,  that  her  hungry  boy 
might  have  enough.  Her  constant  anxiety  for  his  welfare, 
her  pride  in  his  growth  mingled  sometimes  with  the  thought, 
almost  too  acute  to  bear,  that  as  he  grew  to  be  a  man  his 
old  affection  might  cool,  old  kindnesses  fade  from  his  mind, 
and  old  promises  be  forgotten — the  sharp  pain  that  even 
then  a  careless  word  or  a  cold  look  would  give  her — all 
crowded  on  our  thoughts  as  vividly  as  if  the  very  scene  were 
passing  before  us. 

These  things  happen  every  hour,  and  we  all  know  it ;  and 
yet  we  felt  as  much  sorrow  when  we  saw,  or  fancied  we  saw 
— it  makes  no  difference  which — the  change  that  began  to' 
take  place  now,  as  if  we  had  just  conceived  the  bare  possibil- 
ity of  such  a  thing  for  the  first  time.  The  next  suit,  smart 
but  slovenly  ;  meant  to  be  gay,  and  yet  not  half  so  decent  as 
the  threadbare  apparel  ;  redolent  of  the  idle  lounge,  and  the 
blackguard  companions,  told  us,  we  thought,  that  the  widow's 
comfort  had  rapidly  faded  away.  We  could  imagine  that 
coat — imagine  !  we  could  see  it ;  we  had  seen  it  a  hundred 
times — sauntering  in  company  with  three  or  four  other  coats 
of  the  same  cut,  about  some  place  of  profligate  resort  at 
night. 

We  dressedj  from  the  same  shop-window  in  an  instant, 


MED  IT  A  TIONS  IN  MONMOUTH-STREET, 


half  a  dozen  boys  of  from  fifteen  to  twenty;  and  putting 
cigars  into  their  mouths,  and  their  hands  into  their  pockets, 
watched  them  as  they  sauntered  down  the  street,  and  lingered 
at  the  corner,  with  the  obscene  jest,  and  the  oft-repeated  oath. 
We  never  lost  sight  of  them,  till  they  had  cocked  their  hats  a 
little  more  on  one  side,  and  swaggered  into  the  public  house  : 
and  then  we  entered  the  desolate  home,  where  the  mother  sat 
late  in  the  night,  alone ;  we  watched  her,  as  she  paced  the 
room  in  feverish  anxiety,  and  every  now  and  then  opened  the 
door,  looked  wistfully  into  the  dark  and  empty  street,  and 
again  returned,  to  be  again  and  again  disappointed.  We  be- 
held the  look  of  patience  with  which  she  bore  the  brutish 
threat,  nay,  even  the  drunken  blow  ;  and  we  heard  the  agony 
of  tears  -that  gushed  from  her  very  heart,  as  she  sank  upon 
her  knees  in  her  solitary  and  wretched  apartment. 

A  long  period  had  elapsed,  and  a  greater  change  had 
taken  place,  by  the  time  of  casting  oif  the  suit  that  hung 
above.  It  was  that  of  a  stout,  broad-shouldered,  sturdy- 
chested  man  ;  and  we  knew  at  once,  as  anybody  would,  who 
glanced  at  that  broad-skirted  green  coat,  with  the  large  metal 
buttons,  that  its  wearer  seldom  walked  forth  without  a  dog  at 
liis  heels,  and  some  idle  ruffian,  the  very  counterpart  of  him- 
self, at  his  side.  The  vices  of  the  boy  had  grown  with  the 
man,  and  we  fancied  his  home  then — if  such  a  place  deserve 
the  name. 

We  saw  the  bare  and  miserable  room,  destitute  of  furni- 
ture, crowded  with  his  wife  and  children,  pale,  hungry,  and 
emaciated ;  the  man  cursing  their  lamentations,  staggering  to 
the  tap-room,  from  whence  he  had  just  returned,  followed  by 
his  wife  and  sickly  infant,  clamoring  for  bread  j  and  heard 
the  street  wrangle  and  noisy  recrimination  that  his  striking 
her  occasioned.  And  then  imagination  led  us  to  some  metro- 
politan workhouse,  situated  in  the  midst  of  crowded  streets 
and  alleys,  filled  with  noxious  vapors,  and  ringing  with 
boisterous  cries,  where  an  old  and  feeble  woman,  imploring  par- 
don for  her  son,  lay  dying  in  a  close  dark  room,  with  no  child 
to  clasp  her  hand,  and  no  pure  air  from  heaven  to  fan  her 
brow.  A  stranger  closed  the  eyes  that  settled  into  a  cold 
unmeaning  glare,  and  strange  ears  received  the  words  that 
murmured  from  the  white  and  half-closed  lips. 

A  coarse  round  frock,  with  a  worn  cotton  neckerchief,  and 
other  articles  of  clothing  of  the  commonest  description,  com- 
pleted the  history.    A  prison,  and  tl:e  !:entence — banishment 


426 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


or  the  gallows.  What  would  the  man  have  given  then,  to  be 
once  again  the  contented  humble  drudge  of  his  boyish  years  ; 
to  have  restored  to  life,  but  for  a  week,  a  day,  an  hour,  a 
minute,  only  for  so  long  a  time  as  would  enable  him  to  say 
one  word  of  passionate  regret  to,  and  hear  one  sound  of  heart- 
felt forgiveness  from,  the  cold  and  ghastly  form  that  lay  rot- 
ting in  the  pauper's  grave  !  The  children  wild  in  the  streets/ 
the  mother  a  destitute  widow;  both  deeply  tainted  with  the 
deep  disgrace  of  the  husband  and  father's  name,  and  im 
pelled  by  sheer  necessity,  down  the  precipice  that  had  led 
him  to  a  lingering  death,  possibly  of  many  years'  duration, 
thousands  of  miles  away.  We  had  no  clue  to  the  end  of  the 
tale  ;  but  it  was  easy  to  guess  its  termination. 

We  took  a  step  or  two  further  on,  and  byway  of  restoring 
the  naturally  cheerful  tone  of  our  thoughts,  began  fitting 
visionary  feet  and  legs  into  a  cellar-board  full  of  boots  and 
shoes,  with  a  speed  and  accuracy  that  would  have  astonished 
the  most  expert  artist  in  leather,  living.  There  was  one  pair 
of  boots  in  particular — a  jolly,  good  tempered,  hearty-looking 
pair  of  tops,  that  excited  our  warmest  regard  ;  and  we  had 
got  a  fine,  red-faced,  jovial  fellow  of  a  market  gardener  into 
them,  before  we  had  made  their  acquaintance  half  a  minute. 
They  were  just  the  very  thing  for  him.  There  were  his  huge 
fat  legs  bulging  over  the  tops,  and  fitting  them  too  tight  to 
admit  of  his  tucking  in  the  loops  he  had  pulled  them  on  by ; 
and  his  knee-cords  with  an  interval  of  stocking  ;  and  his  blue 
apron  tucked  up  round  his  waist ;  and  his  red  neckerchief  and 
blue  coat,  and  a  white  hat  stuck  on  one  side  of  his  head  ;  and 
there  he  stood  with  a  broad  grin  on  his  great  red  face,  whist- 
ling away,  as  if  any  other  idea  but  that  of  being  happy  and 
comfortable  had  never  entered  his  brain. 

This  was  the  very  man  after  our  own  heart ;  we  knew  all 
about  him  ;  we  had  seen  him  coming  up  to  Covent-garden  in 
his  green  chaise-cart,  with  the  fat  tubby  little  horse,  half  a 
thousand  times  ;  and  even  while  we  cast  an  affectionate  look 
upon  his  boots,  at  that  instant,  the  form  of  a  coquettish  ser- 
vant-maid suddenly  sprung  into  a  pair  of  Denmark  satin  shoes 
that  stood  beside  them,  and  we  at  once  recognized  the  very 
girl  who  accepted  his  offer  of  a  ride,  just  on  this  side  ot 
the  Hammersmith  suspension-bridge,  the  very  last  Tuesday 
morning  we  rode  into  town  from  Richmond. 

A  very  smart  female,  in  a  showy  bonnet,  stepped  into  a 
pair  of  gray  cloth  boots,  with  black  fringe  and  binding,  that 


MEDITATIONS  IN  MONMOUTH-STREET, 


were  studiously  pointing  out  their  toes  on  the  other  side  of 
thn  top'boots,  and  seemed  very  anxious  to  engage  his  atten- 
tion, but  we  didn't  observe  that  our  friend  the  market-gar- 
dener appeared  at  all  captivated  with  these  blandishments  ;  for 
beyond  giving  a  knowing  wink  when  they  first  began,  as  if  to 
imply  that  he  quite  understood  their  end  and  object,  he  took 
no  further  notice  of  them.  His  indifference,  however,  was 
amply  recompensed  by  the  excessive  gallantry  of  a  very  old 
gentleman  with  a  silver-headed  stick,  who  tottered  into  a  pair 
of  large  list  shoes,  that  were  standing  in  one  corner  of  the 
board,  and  indulged  in  a  variety  of  gestures  expressive  of  his 
admiration  of  the  lady  in  the  cloth  boots,  to  the  immeasurable 
amusement  of  a  young  fellow  we  put  into  a  pair  of  long-quar- 
tered pumps,  who  we  thought  would  have  split  the  coat  that 
slid  down  to  meet  him,  with  laughing. 

We  had  been  looking  on  at  this  little  pantOmine  with  great 
satisfaction  for  some  time,  when,  to  our  unspeakable  astonish- 
ment we  perceived  that  the  whole  of  the  characters,  includ- 
ing a  numerous  coj'ps  de  ballet  of  boots  and  shoes  in  the  back- 
ground, into  which  v/e  had  been  hastily  thrusting  as  many  feet 
as  we  could  press  into  the  service,  were  arranging  themselves  in 
order  for  dancing ;  and  some  music  striking  up  at  the  moment, 
to  it  they  went  without  delay.  It  was  perfectly  delightful  to 
witness  the  agility  of  the  market-gardener.  Out  went  the 
boots,  first  on  one  side,  then  on  the  other,  then  cutting,  then 
shufflingj  then  setting  to  the  Denmark  satins,  then  advancing, 
then  retreating,  then  going  round,  and  then  repeating  the  whole 
of  the  evolutions  again,  without  appearing  to  suffer  in  the 
least  from  the  violence  of  the  exercise. 

Nor  were  the  Denmark  satins  a  bit  behindhand,  for  they 
jumped  and  bounded  about,  in  all  directions  ;  and  though 
they  were  neither  so  regular,  nor  so  true  to  the  time  as  the 
cloth  boots,  still,  as  they  seemed  to  do  it  from  the  heart,  and 
to  enjoy  it  more,  v/e  candidly  confess  that  we  preferred  their 
style  of  dancing  to  the  other.  But  the  old  gentleman  in  the 
list  shoes  was  the  most  amusing  object  in  the  whole  party  ; 
for,  besides  his  grotesque  attempts  to  appear  youthful,  and 
amorous,  which  were  sufficiently  entertaining  in  themselves, 
the  young  fellow  in  the  pumps  managed  so  artfully  that  every 
time  the  old  gentleman  advanced  to  salute  the  lady  in  the 
cloth  boots,  he  trod  with  his  whole  weight  on  the  old  fellow's 
toes,  which  made  him  roar  with  anguish,  and  rendered  all  the 
others  like  to  die  of  laughing. 


428 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


We  were  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  these  festivities  when 
we  heard  a  shrill,  and  by  no  means  musical  voice,  exclaim. 
"  Hope  you'll  know  me  again,  imperence  !  "  and  on  looking 
intently  forward  to  see  from  whence  the  sound  came,  we  found 
that  it  proceeded,  not  from  the  young  lady  in  the  cloth  boots, 
as  we  had  at  first  been  inclined  to  suppose,  but  from  a  bulky 
lady  of  elderly  appearance  who  was  seated  in  a  chair  at  the 
head  of  the  cellar-steps,  apparently  for  the  purpose  of  super- 
intending the  sale  of  the  articles  arranged  there. 

A  barrel-organ,  which  had  been  in  full  force  close  behind 
us,  ceased  playing ;  the  people  we  had  been  fitting  into  the 
shoes  and  boots  took  to  flight  at  the  interruption  ;  and  as  we 
were  conscious  that  in  the  depth  of  our  meditations  we  might 
have  been  rudely  staring  at  the  old  lady  for  half  an  hour  with- 
out knowing  it,  we  took  to  flight  too,  and  were  soon  immersed 
in  the  deepest  obscurity  of  the  adjacent  Dials." 


CHAPTER  VH. 

HACKNEY-COACH  STANDS. 

We  maintain  that  hackney-coaches,  properly  so  called, 
belong  solely  to  the  metropolis.  We  may  be  told,  that  there 
are  hackney-coach  stands  in  Edinburgh  ;  and  not  to  go  quite 
so  far  for  a  contradiction  to  our  position,  we  may  be  remind- 
ed that  Liverpool,  Manchester,  "  and  other  large  towns  "  (as 
the  Parliamentary  phrase  goes),  have  their  hackney-coach 
stands.  We  readily  concede  to  these  places,  the  possession  of 
certain  vehicles,  which  may  look  almost  as  dirty,  and  even  go 
almost  as  slowly,  as  London  hackney-coaches :  but  that  they 
have  the  slightest  claim  to  compete  with  the  metropolis,  either 
in  point  of  stands,  drivers,  or  cattle,  we  indignantly  deny. 

Take  a  regular,  ponderous,  rickety,  London  hackney-coach 
of  the  old  school,  and  let  any  man  have  the  boldness  to  assert, 
if  he  can,  that  he  ever  beheld  any  object  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  which  at  all  resembles  it,  unless,  indeed,  it  were  another 
hackney-coach  of  the  same  date.  We  have  recently  observed 
on  certain  stands,  and  we  say  it  with  deep  regret,  rather  dap- 
per  green  chariots,  and  coaches  of  polished  yellow,  with  four 


HA  CKNE  Y-COA  CH  STANDS. 


wheels  of  the  same  color  as  the  coach,  whereas  it  is  perfectly 
notorious  to  every  one  who  has  studied  the  subject,  that  every 
wheel  ought  to  be  of  a  different  color,  and  a  different  size. 
These  are  innovations,  and,  like  other  mis-called  improve- 
ments, awful  signs  of  the  restlessness  of  the  public  mind,  and 
the  little  respect  paid  to  our  time-honored  institutions.  Why 
should  hackney-coaches  be  clean  ?  Our  ancestors  found  them 
dirty,  and  left  them  so.  Why  should  we,  with  a  feverish  wish 
to  "keep  moving,'^  desire  to  roll  along  at  the  rate  of  six  miles 
an  hour,  while  they  were  content  to  rumble  over  the  stones  at 
four  ?  These  are  solemn  considerations.  Hackney-coaches 
are  part  and  parcel  of  the  law  of  the  land ;  they  were  settled 
by  the  Legislature ;  plated  and  numbered  by  the  wisdom  of 
Parliament. 

Then  why  have  they  been  swamped  by  cabs  and  omni- 
buses ?  Or  why  should  people  be  allowed  to  ride  quickly  for 
eightpence  a  mile,  after  Parliament  had  come  to  the  solemn 
decision  that  they  should  pay  a  shilling  a  mile  for  riding 
slowly?  We  pause  for  a  reply; — and,  having  no  chance  of 
getting  one,  begin  a  fresh  paragraph. 

Our  acquaintance  with  hackney-coach  stands  is  of  long 
standing.  We  are  a  walking  book  of  fares,  feeling  ourselves, 
half-bound,  as  it  were,  to  be  always  in  the  right  on  contested 
points.  We  know  all  the  regular  watermen  within  three  miles 
of  Covent-garden  by  sight,  and  should  be  almost  tempted  to 
believe  that  all  the  hackney-coach  horses  in  that  district  knew 
us  by  sight  too,  if  one-half  of  them  w^ere  not  blind.  We  take 
great  interest  in  hackney-coaches,  but  we  seldom  drive,  having 
a  knack  of  turning  ourselves  over  when  we  attempt  to  do  so. 
We  are  as  great  friends  to  horses,  hackney-coach  and  other- 
wise, as  the  renowned  Mr.  Martin,  of  costermonger  notoriety, 
and  yet  w^e  never  ride.  We  keep  no  horse,  but  a  clothes- 
horse  ;  enjoy  no  saddle  so  much- as  a  saddle  of  mutton  ;  and, 
following  our  own  inclinations,  have  never  followed  the  hounds. 
Leaving  these  fleeter  means  of  getting  over  the  ground,  or  of 
depositing  oneself  upon  it,  to  those  who  like  them,  by  hack- 
ney-coach stands  we  take  our  stand. 

There  is  a  hackney-coach  stand  vmder  the  very  vvindow  at 
which  we  are  writing ;  there  is  only  one  coach  on  it  now, 
but  it  is  a  fair  specimen  of  the  class  of  vehicles  to  which  we 
have  alluded — a  great,  lumbering,  square  concern  of  a  dingy 
yellov^  color  (like  a  bilious  brunette),  with  very  small  glasses 
put  very  la?^ge  frames ;  the  panels  are  ornamented  with  a 


SKETCHES  B  V  BOZ. 


faded  coat  of  arms,  in  shape  something  like  a  dissected  bat^ 
the  axletree  is  red,  and  the  majority  of  the  wheels  are  green. 
The  box  is  partially  covered  by  an  old  great-coat,  with  a  mul- 
tiplicity of  capes,  and  some  extraordinary -looking  clothes  j 
and  the  straw,  with  which  the  canvas  cushion  is  stuffed,  is 
sticking  up  in  several  places,  as  if  in  rivalry  of  the  hay,  which 
is  peeping  through  the  chinks  in  the  boot.  The  horses,  with 
drooping  heads,  and  each  with  a  mane  and  tail  as  scanty  and 
straggling  as  those  of  a  worn-out  rocking-horse,  are  standing 
patiently  on  some  damp  straw,  occasionally  wincing,  and 
rattling  the  harness ;  and  nov/  and  then,  one  of  them  lifts  his 
mouth  to  the  ear  of  his  companion,  as  if  he  were  saying,  in  a 
whisper,  that  he  should  like  to  assassinate  the  coachman. 
The  coachman  himself  is  in  the  watering-house  ;  and  the 
waterman,  with  his  hands  forced  into  his  pockets  as  far  as 
they  can  possibly  go,  is  dancing  the  "  double  shuffle,"  in  front 
of  the  pump,  to  keep  his  feet  warm, 

The  servant-girl,  with  the  pink  ribbons,  at  No.  5,  ojoposite, 
suddenly  opens  the  street-door,  and  four  small  children  forth- 
with rush  out,  and  scream  Coach  !  with  all  their  might 
and  main.  The  waterman  darts  from  the  pump,  seizes  the 
horses  by  their  respective  bridles,  and  drags  them,  and  the 
coach  too,  round  to  the  house,  shouting  all  the  time  for  the 
coachman  at  the  very  top,  or  rather  very  bottom  of  his  voice, 
for  it  is  a  deep  bass  growl.  A  response  is  heard  from  the 
tap-room ;  the  coachman,  in  his  wooden-soled  shoes,  makes 
the  street  echo  again  as  he  runs  across  it ;  and  then  there 
is  such  a  struggling,  and  backing,  and  grating  of  the  kennel, 
to  get  the  coach-door  opposite  the  house-door,  that  the  chil- 
dren are  in  perfect  ecstasies  of  delight.  What  a  commotion ! 
The  old  lady,  who  has  been  stopping  there  for  the  last  month, 
is  going  back  to  the  country.  Out  comes  box  after  box,  and 
one  side  of  the  vehicle  is  filled  with  luggage  in  no  time  ;  the 
children  get  into  everybody's  way,  the  youngest,  who  has  upset 
himself  in  his  attempts  to  carry  an  umbrella,  is  borne  off 
wounded  and  kicking.  The  youngsters  disappear,  and  a 
short  pause  ensues,  during  which  the  old  lady  is,  no  doubt, 
kissing  them  all  round  in  the  back  parlor.  She  appears  at 
last,  followed  by  her  married  daughter,  all  the  children,  and 
both  the  servants,  who,  with  the  joint  assistance  of  the  coach- 
man and  waterman,  manage  to  get  her  safely  into  the  coach. 
A  cloak  is  handed  in,  and  a  little  basket,  which  we  could 
almost  swear  contains  a  small  black  bottle,  anc|  a  paper  of 


HACKNEY-COACH  STANDS. 


sandwiches.  Up  go  the  steps,  bang  goes  the  door,  "  Golden- 
cross,  Charing-cross,  Tom,"  says  the  waterman ;  "  Good-by, 
grandma,"  cry  the  children,  off  jingles  the  coach  at  the  rate 
of  three  miles  an  hour,  and  the  mamma  and  children  retire 
into  the  house,  with  the  exception  of  one  little  villain,  who 
runs  up  the  street  at  the  top  of  his  speed,  pursued  by  the 
servant ;  not  ill-pleased  to  have  such  an  opportunity  of  dis- 
playing her  attractions.  She  brings  him  back,  and,  after 
casting  two  or  three  gracious  glances  across  the  way,  which 
are  either  intended  for  us  or  the  potboy  (we  are  not  quite 
certain  which),  shuts  the  door  and  the  hackney-coach  stand 
is  again  at  a  standstill. 

We  have  been  frequently  amused  with  the  intense  delight 
with  which  a  servant  of  all  work,"  who  is  sent  for  a  coach, 
deposits  herself  inside  ;  and  the  unspeakable  gratification 
which  boys,  who  have  been  despatched  on  a  similar  errand, 
appear  to  derive  from  mounting  the  box.  But  we  never  rec- 
ollect to  have  been  more  amused  with  a  hackney-coach 
party,  than  one  we  saw  early  the  other  morning  in  Totten- 
ham-court-road. It  was  a  wedding-party,  and  emerged  from 
one  of  the  inferior  streets  near  Fitzroy-square.  There  were 
the  bride,  with  a  thin  white  dress,  and  a  great  red  face ;  and 
the  bridesmaid,  a  little,  dumpy,  good-humored  young  woman, 
dressed,  of  course,  in  the  same  appropriate  costume ;  and  the 
bridegroom  and  his  chosen  friend,  in  blue  coats,  yellow 
waistcoats,  white  trousers,  and  Berlin  gloves  to  match.  They 
stopped  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  called  a  coach  with 
an  air  of  indescribable  dignity.  The  moment  they  were  in, 
the  bridesmaid  threw  a  red  shawl,  which  she  had,  no  doubt, 
brought  on  purpose,  negligently  over  the  number  on  the 
door,  evidently  to  delude  pedestrians  into  the  belief  that  the 
hackney-coach  was  a  private  carriage  ;  and  away  they  went, 
perfectly  satisfied  that  the  imposition  was  successful,  and 
quite  unconscious  that  there  was  a  great  staring  number 
stuck  up  behind,  on  a  plate  as  large  as  a  schoolboy's  slate. 
A  shilling  a  mile  ! — the  ride  was  worth  five,  at  least,  to 
them. 

What  an  interesting  book  a  hackney-coach  might  produce, 
if  it  could  carry  as  much  in  its  head  as  it  does  in  its  body  ! 
The  autobiography  of  a  broken-down  hackney-coach,  would 
surely  be  as  amusing  as  the  autobiography  of  a  broken-down 
hackneyed  dramatist ;  and  it  might  tell  as  much  of  its  travels 
with  the  pole,  as  others  have  of  their  expeditions  to  it.  How 


432 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


many  stories  might  be  related  of  the  different  people  it  had 
conveyed  on  matters  of  business  or  profit — pleasure  or  pain ! 
And  how  many  melancholy  tales  of  the  same  people  at  dif- 
ferent periods  !  The  country-girl — the  showy,  over-dressed 
woman — the  drunken  prostitute —  !  The  raw  apprentice — the 
dissipated  spendthrift — the  thief  1 

Talk  of  cabs  !  Cabs  are  all  very  well  in  cases  of  expedi- 
tion, when  it's  a  matter  of  neck  or  nothing,  life  or  death, 
your  temporary  home  or  your  long  one.  But,  besides  a  cab's 
lacking  that  gravity  of  deportment  which  so  peculiarly  dis- 
tinguishes a  hackney-coach,  let  it  never  be  forgotten  that  a 
cab  is  a  thing  of  yesterday,  and  that  he  never  was  anything 
better.  A  hackney-cab  has  always  been  a  hackney-cab,  from 
his  first  entry  into  life  ;  whereas  a  hackney-coach  is  a  remnant 
of  past  gentility,  a  victim  to  fashion,  a  hanger-on  of  an  old 
English  family,  wearing  their  arms,  and,  in  days  of  yore,  es- 
corted by  men  wearing  their  livery,  stripped  of  his  finery,  and 
thrown  upon  the  world,  like  a  once-smart  footman  when  he  is 
no  longer  sufficiently  juvenile  for  his  office,  progressing  lower 
and  lower  in  the  scale  of  four-wheeled  degradation,  until  at 
last  it  comes  to — a  stand! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

doctors' COM  MONS 

Walking,  without  any  definite  object  through  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard,  a  little  while  ago,  we  happened  to  turn  down  a 
street  entitled  "  Paul's  chain,"  and  keeping  straight  forward 
for  a  few  hundred  yards,  found  ourself,  as  a  natural  conse- 
quence, in  Doctors'  Commons.  Now  Doctors'  Commons  being 
familiar  by  name  to  everybody,  as  the  place  where  they  grant 
marriage-licenses  to  love-sick  couples,  and  divorces  to  un- 
faithful ones ;  register  the  wills  of  people  who  have  any  prop- 
erty to  leave,  and  punish  hasty  gentlemen  who  call  ladies  by 
unpleasant  names,  we  no  sooner  discovered  that  we  were 
really  within  its  precincts,  than  we  felt  a  laudable  desire  to 
become  better  acquainted  therewith ;  and  as  the  first  object 
of  our  curiosity  was  the  Court,  whose  decrees  can  even  iifi' 


DOCTORS'  COMMONS. 


433 


loose  the  bonds  of  matrimony,  we  procured  a  direction  to  it ; 
and  bent  our  steps  thither  without  delay. 

Crossing  a  quiet  and  shady  court-yard,  paved  with  stone, 
and  frowned  upon  by  old  red  brick  houses,  on  the  doors  of 
which  were  painted  the  names  of  sundry  learned  civilians, 
we  paused  before  a  small,  green-baized,  brass-headed-nailed 
door,  which  yielding  to  our  gentle  push,  at  once  admitted  us 
into  an  old  quaint-looking  apartment,  with  sunken  windows, 
and  black  carved  wainscoting,  at  the  upper  end  of  which, 
seated  on  a  raised  platform,  of  semicircular  shape,  were 
about  a  dozen  solemn-looking  gentlemen,  in  crimson  gowns 
and  wigs. 

At  a  more  elevated  desk  in  the  centre,  sat  a  very  fat  and  red- 
faced  gentleman,  in  tortoise-shell  spectacles,  whose  dignified  ap- 
pearance announced  the  judge  ;  and  round  a  long  green-baized 
table  below,  something  like  a  billiard-table  without  the  cush- 
ions and  pockets,  were  a  number  of  very  self-important-look- 
ing personages,  in  stiff  neckcloths,  and  black  gowns  with  white 
fur  collars,  whom  we  at  once  set  down  as  proctors.  At  the 
lower  end  of  the  billiard-table  was  an  individual  in  an  arm- 
chair, and  a  wig,  whom  we  afterwards  discovered  to  be  the 
registrar ;  and  seated  behind  a  little  desk,  near  the  door,  wei  e 
a  respectable-looking  man  in  black,  of  about  twenty  stone 
weight  or  thereabouts,  and  a  fat-faced,  smirking,  civil-lookir.g 
body,  in  a  black  gown,  black  kid  gloves,  knee  shorts,  and  silks, 
with  a  shirt-frill  in  his  bosom,  curls  on  his  head,  and  a  silver 
staff  in  his  hand,  whom  we  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  as 
the  officer  of  the  Court.  The  latter,  indeed,  speedily  set  our 
mind  at  rest  upon  this  point,  for  advancing  to  our  elbow,  and 
opening  a  conversation  forthwith,  he  had  communicated  to 
us,  in  less  than  five  minutes,  that  he  was  the  apparitor,  and 
the  other  the  court-keeper ;  that  this  was  the  Arches  Court, 
and  therefore  the  counsel  wore  red  gowns,  and  the  proctors 
fur  collars ;  aijd  that  when  the  other  Courts  sat  .there,  they 
didn't  wear  red  gowns  or  fur  collars  either;  with  many  other 
scraps  of  intelligence  equally  interesting.  Besides  these  two 
officers,  there  was  a  little  thin  old  man,  with  long  grizzly  liair, 
crouched  in  a  remote  corner,  whose  duty,  our  communicative 
friend  informed  us,  was  to  ring  a  large  hand-bell  when  the 
Court  opened  in  the  morning,  and  who,  for  aught  his  appear- 
ance betokened  to  the  contrary,  might  have  been  similarly 
employed  for  the  last  two  centuries  at  least. 

The  red-faced  gentleman  in  the  tortoise-shell  spectacles 
28 


434 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


had  got  all  the  talk  to  himself  just  then,  and  very  well  he  was 
doing  it,  too,  only  he  spoke  very  fast,  but  that  was  habit ;  and 
rather  thick,  but  that  was  good  living.  So  we  had  plenty  of 
time  to  look  about  us.  There  was  one  individual  who  amused 
us  mightily.  This  was  one  of  the  bewigged  gentlemen  in  the 
red  robes,  who  was  straddling  before  the  fire  in  the  centre  of 
the  Court,  in  the  attitude  of  the  brazen  Colossus,  to  the  com- 
plete exclusion  of  everybody  else.  He  had  gathered  up  his 
robe  behind,  in  much  the  same  manner  as  a  slovenly  woman 
would  her  petticoats  on  a  very  dirty  day,  in  order  that  he 
might  feel  the  full  warmth  of  the  fire.  His  wig  was  put  on 
all  awry,  with  the  tail  straggling  about  his  neck,  his  scanty  gray 
trousers  and  short  black  gaiters,  made  in  the  worst  possible 
style,  imparted  an  additional  inelegant  appearance  to  his 
uncouth  person ;  and  his  limp,  badly-starched  shirt -collar 
almost  obscured  his  eyes.  We  shall  never  be  able  to  claim 
any  credit  as  a  physiognomist  again,  for,  after  a  careful 
scrutiny  of  this  gentleman's  countenance,  we  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  bespoke  nothing  but  conceit  and  silliness, 
when  our  friend  with  the  silver  staff  whispered  in  our  ear  that 
he  was  no  other  than  a  doctor  of  civil  law,  and  heaven  knows 
what  besides.  So  of  course  we  were  mistaken,  and  he  must 
be  a  very  talented  man.  He  conceals  it  so  well  though — 
perhaps  with  the  merciful  view  of  not  astonishing  ordinary 
people  too  much — that  you  would  suppose  him  to  be  one  of 
the  stupidest  dogs  alive. 

The  gentleman  in  the  spectacles  having  concluded  his 
judgment,  and  a  few  minutes  having  been  allowed  to  elapse,  to 
afford  time  for  the  buzz  in  the  Court  to  subside,  the  registrar 
called  on  the  next  cause,  which  was  the  office  of  the  Judge 
promoted  by  Bumple  against  Sludberry.''  A  general  mov^e- 
ment  was  visible  in  the  Court,  at  this  announcement,  and  ^ 
the  obliging  functionary  with  a  silver  staff  whispered  us  that 
^'  there  woul(^  be  some  fun  now,  for  this  was  a  brawling  case." 

We  were  not  rendered  much  the  wiser  by  this  piece  of  in- 
formation, till  we  found  by  the  opening  speech  of  the  counsel 
for  the  promoter,  that,  under  a  half-obsolete  statute  of  one  of 
the  Edwards,  the  court  was  empowered  to  visit  with  the  pen- 
alty of  excommunication,  any  person  who  should  be  proved 
guilty  of  the  crime  of  brawling,"  or  "  smiting,"  in  any  church 
or  vestry  adjoining  thereto  ;  and  it  appeared,  by  some  eighth' 
and-twenty  affidavits,  which  were  duly  referred  to,  that  on  a 
certain  night,  at  a  certain  vestry- jneeting,  in  a  certain  parish 


DOCTORS'  COMMONS. 


435 


particularly  set  forth,  Thomas  Sludberry,  the  party  appeared 
against  in  that  suit,  had  made  use  of,  and  applied  to  Michael 
Bumple,  the  promoter,  the  words  You  be  blowed  ; "  and  that 
on  the  said  Michael  Bumple  and  others  remonstrating  with 
the  said  Thomas  Sludberry,  on  the  impropriety  of  his  conduct, 
the  said  Thomas  Sludberry  repeated  the  aforesaid  expression^ 
You  be  blowed  ; "  and  furthermore  desired  and  requested  to 
know  whether  the  said  Michael  Bumple  "wanted  anything  for 
himself  ; "  adding,  "  that  if  the  said  Michael  Bumple  did  want 
anything  for  himself,  he,  the  said  Thomas  Sludberry,  was  the 
man  to  give  it  him  ;  "  at  the  same  time  making  use  of  other 
heinous  and  sinful  expressions,  all  of  which,  Bumple  sub- 
mitted, came  within  the  intent  and  meaning  of  the  Act;  and 
therefore  he,  for  the  soul's  health  and  chastening  of  Slud- 
berry, prayed  for  sentence  of  excommunication  against  him 
accordingly. 

Upon  these  facts  a  long  argument  was  entered  into,  on 
both  sides,  to  the  great  edification  of  a  number  of  persons  in- 
terested in  the  parochial  squabbles,  who  crowded  the  court ; 
and  when  some  very  long  and  grave  speeches  had  been  made 
pro  and  con^  the  red-faced  gentleman  in  the  tortoise-shell  spec- 
tacles took  a  review  of  the  case,  which  occupied  half  an  hour 
more,  and  then  pronounced  upon  Sludberry  the  awful  sen- 
tence of  excommunication  for  a  fortnight,  and  payment  of  the 
costs  of  the  suit.  Upon  this,  Sludberry,  who  w^as  a  little,  red- 
faced,  sly-looking,  ginger-beer  seller,  addressed  the  court,  and 
said,  if  they'd  be  good  enough  to  take  off  the  costs,  and  ex^ 
communicate  him  for  the  term  of  his  natural  life  instead,  it 
would  be  much  more  convenient  to  him,  for  he  never  went  to 
church  at  all.  To  this  appeal  the  gentleman  in  the  spectacles 
made  no  other  reply  than  a  look  of  virtuous  indignation  ;  and 
Sludberry  and  his  friends  retired.  As  the  man  with  the  silver 
staff  informed  us  that  the  court  was  on  the  point  of  rising,  we 
retired  too — pondering,  as  we  walked  away,  upon  the  beauti- 
ful spirit  of  these  ancient  ecclesiastical  laws,  the  kind  and 
neighborly  feelings  they  are  calculated  to  awaken,  and  the 
strong  attachment  to  religious  institutions  which  they  cannot 
fail  to  engender. 

We  were  so  lost  in  these  meditations,  that  we  had  turned 
into  the  street,  and  run  up  against  a  door-post,  before  wc  rec- 
ollected where  we  were  walking.  On  looking  upwards  to  see 
what  house  we  had  stumbled  upon,  the  words  *  Prerogative- 
Office,"  written  in  large  characters,  met  our  eye;  and  as  we 


43^ 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


were  in  a  sight-seeing  humor  and  the  place  was  a  public  one, 
we  walked  in. 

The  room  into  which  we  walked,  was  a  long,  busy-looking 
place,  partitioned  off,  on  either  side,  into  a  variety  of  little 
boxes,  in  which  a  few  clerks  were  engaged  in  copying  or  ex- 
amining deeds.  Down  the  centre  of  the  room  were  several 
desks  nearly  breast  high,  at  each  of  which,  three  or  four  peo- 
ple were  standing,  poring  over  large  volumes.  As  we  knevr 
that  they  were  searching  for  wills,  they  attracted  our  attention 
at  once. 

It  was  curious  to  contrast  the  lazy  indifference  of  the  attor- 
neys' clerks  who  were  making  a  search  for  some  legal  pur- 
pose, with  the  air  of  earnestness  and  interest  which  distin- 
guished the  strangers  to  the  place,  who  were  looking  up  the 
will  of  some  deceased  relative  ;  the  former  pausing  every  now 
and  then  with  an  impatient  yawn,  or  raising  their  heads  to 
look  at  the  people  who  passed  up  and  down  the  room  ;  the 
latter  stooping  over  the  book,  and  running  down  column 
after  column  of  names  in  the  deepest  abstraction. 

There  was  one  little  dirty-faced  man  in  a  blue  apron,  who 
after  a  whole  morning's  search,  extending  some  fifty  years 
back,  had  just  found  the  will  to  which  he  wished  to  refer, 
which  one  of  the  officials  was  reading  to  him  in  a  low  hurried 
voice  from  a  thick  vellum  book  with  large  clasps.  It  was 
perfectly  evident  that  the  more  the  clerk  read,  the  less  the 
man  with  the  blue  apron  understood  about  the  matter.  When 
the  volume  was  first  brought  down,  he  took  off  his  hat, 
smoothed  down  his  hair,  smiled  with  great  self-satisfaction, 
and  looked  up  in  the  reader's  face  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  recollect  every  word  he  heard. 
The  first  two  or  three  lines  were  intelligible  enough  ;  but 
then  the  technicalities  began,  and  the  little  man  began  to 
look  rather  dubious.  Then  came  a  whole  string  of  compli- 
cated trusts,  and  he  was  regularly  at  sea.  As  the  reader 
proceeded,  it  was  quite  apparent  that  it  was  a  hopeless  case, 
and  the  little  man,  with  his  mouth  open  and  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  his  face,  looked  on  with  an  expression  of  bewilderment 
and  perplexity  irresistibly  ludicrous. 

A  little  further  on,  a  hard-featured  old  man  with  a  deepl}-- 
wrinkled  face,  was  intently  perusing  a  lengthy  will  with  the 
aid  of  a  pair  of  horn  spectacles  :  occasionally  pausing  from  his 
task,  and  slyly  noting  down  some  brief  memorandum  of  the 
bequests  contained  in  it.    Every  wrinkle  about  his  toothless 


DOCTORS'  COMMONS, 


437 


mouth,  and  sharp  keen  eyes,  told  of  avarice  and  cunning. 
His  clothes  were  nearly  threadbare,  but  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  he  wore  them  from  choice  and  not  from  necessity  ;  all 
his  looks  and  gestures  down  to  the  very  small  pinches  of 
snuff  which  he  every  now  and  then  took  from  a  little  tin  can- 
ister, told  of  wealth,  and  penury,  and  avarice. 

As  he  leisurely  closed  the  register,  put  up  his  spectacles, 
and  folded  his  scraps  of  paper  in  a  large  leathern  pocket- 
book,  we  thought  what  a  nice  hard  bargain  he  was  driving 
with  some  poverty-stricken  legatee,  who,  tired  of  waiting  year 
after  year,  until  some  life-interest  should  fall  in,  was  selling 
his  chance,  just  as  it  began  to  grow  most  valuable,  for  a 
twelfth  part  of  its  worth.  It  was  a  good  speculation — a  very 
safe  one.  The  old  man  stowed  his  pocket-book  carefully  in 
the  breast  of  his  great-coat,  and  hobbled  away  with  a  leer  of 
triumph.  That  will  had  made  him  ten  years  younger  at  the 
lowest  computation. 

Having  commenced  our  observations,  we  should  certainly 
have  extended  them  to  another  dozen  of  people  at  least,  had 
not  a  sudden  shutting  up  and  putting  away  of  the  worm-eaten 
old  books,  warned  us  that  the  time  for  closing  the  office  had 
arrived  ;  and  thus  deprived  us  of  a  pleasure,  and  spared  our 
readers  an  infliction. 

We  naturally  fell  into  a  train  of  reflection  as  we  walked 
homewards,  upon  the  curious  old  records  of  likings  and  dislik- 
ings  ;  of  jealousies  and  revenges  ;  of  affection  defying  the  power 
of  death,  and  hatred  pursued  beyond  the  grave,  which  these 
depositories  contain  ;  silent  but  striking  tokens,  some  of  them, 
of  excellence  of  heart,  and  nobleness  of  soul ;  melancholy 
examples,  others,  of  the  worst  passions  of  human  nature. 
How  many  men  as  they  lay  speechless  and  helpless  on  the 
bed  of  death,  would  have  given  worlds  but  for  the  strength 
and  power  to  blot  out  the  silent  evidence  of  animosity  and 
bitterness,  which  now  stands  registered  against  them  in  DoC' 
tors'  Commons  f 


438 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ, 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LONDON  RECREATIONS. 

The  wish  of  persons  in  the  humbler  classes  of  life,  to  ape 
the  manners  and  customs  of  those  whom  fortune  has  placed 
above  them,  is  often  the  subject  of  remark,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  of  complaint.  The  inclination  may,  and  no  doubt 
does,  exist  to  a  great  extent,  among  the  small  gentility — the 
would-be  aristocrats — of  the  middle  classes.  Tradesmen  and 
clerks,  with  fashionable  novel-reading  families,  and  circulating- 
library-subscribing  daughters,  get  up  small  assemblies  in 
humble  imitation  of  Almack's,  and  promenade  the  dingy 
"  large  room  of  some  second-rate  hotel  with  as  much  com- 
placency as  the  enviable  few  who  are  privileged  to  exhibit 
their  magnificence  in  that  exclusive  haunt  of  fashion  and 
foolery.  Aspiring  young  ladies,  who  read  flaming  accounts 
of  some  "fancy  fair  in  high  life,"  suddenly  grow  desperately 
charitable ;  visions  of  admiration  and  matrimony  float  before 
their  eyes ;  some,  wonderfully  meritorious  institution,  which, 
by  the  strangest  accident  in  the  world,  has  never  been  heard 
of  before,  is  discovered  to  be  in  a  languishing  condition : 
Thomson's  great  room,  or  Johnson's  nursery-ground,  is  forth- 
with engaged,  and  the  aforesaid  young  ladies,  from  mere 
charity,  exhibit  themselves  for  three  days,  from  twelve  to  four, 
for  the  small  charge  of  one  shilling  per  head  !  With  the  ex- 
ception of  these  classes  of  society,  however,  and  a  few  weak 
and  insignificant  persons,  we  do  not  think  the  attempt  at  imi- 
tation to  which  we  have  alluded,  prevails  in  any  great  degree. 
The  different  character  of  the  recreations  of  different  classes, 
has  often  afforded  us  amusement ;  and  we  have  chosen  it  for 
the  subject  of  our  present  sketch,  in  the  hope  that  it  may 
possess  some  amusement  for  our  readers. 

If  the  regular  City  man,  who  leaves  Lloyd's  at  five  o'clock, 
and  drives  home  to  Hackney,  Clapton,  Stamford-hill,  or  else- 
where, can  be  said  to  have  any  daily  recreation  beyond  his 
dinner,  it  is  his  garden.  He  never  does  anything  to  it  with 
his  own  hands  ;  but  he  takes  great  pride  in  it  notwithstand- 
ing ;  and  if  you  are  desirous  of  paying  your  addresses  to  the 
j^oungest  daughter,  be  sure  to  be  in  raptures  with  every  flower 


LONDON  RECREA  TIONS, 


439 


and  shrub  it  contains.  If  your  poverty  of  expression  compel 
you  to  make  any  distinction  between  the  two,  we  would  cer- 
tainly recommend  your  bestowing  more  admiration  on  his  gar- 
den than  his  wine.  He  always  takes  a  walk  round  it,  before 
he  starts  for  town  in  the  morning,  and  is  particularly  anxious 
that  the  fish-pond  should  be  kept  si^ecially  neat.  If  you 
call  on  him  on  Sunday  in  summer-time,  about  an  hour  before 
dinner,  you  will  find  him  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  on  the  lawn 
behind  the  house,  with  a  straw-hat  on,  reading  a  Sunday 
paper.  A  short  distance  from  him  you  will  most  likely  ob- 
serve a  handsome  paroquet  in  a  large  brass-wire  cage ;  ten  to 
one  but  the  two  eldest  girls  are  loitering  in  one  of  the  side 
walks  accompanied  by  a  couple  of  young  gentlemen,  who  are 
holding  parasols  over  them — of  course  only  to  keep  the  sun 
off — while  the  younger  children,  with  the  under  nursery-maid, 
are  strolling  listlessly  about,  in  the  shade.  Beyond  these 
occasions,  his  delight  in  his  garden  appears  to  arise  more 
from  the  consciousness  of  possession  than  actual  enjoyment 
of  it.  When  he  drives  you  down  to  dinner  on  a  week-day, 
he  is  rather  fatigued  with  the  occupations  of  the  morning,  and 
tolerably  cross  into  the  bargain ;  but  when  the  cloth  is  re- 
moved, and  he  has  drank  three  or  four  glasses  of  his  favorite 
port,  he  orders  the  French  windows  of  his  dining-room  (which 
of  course  look  into  the  garden)  to  be  opened,  and  throwing  a 
silk  handkerchief  over  his  head,  and  leaning  back  in  his  arm- 
chair, descants  at  considerable  length  upon  its  beauty,  and 
the  cost  of  maintaining  it.  This  is  to  impress  you — who 
are  a  young  friend  of  the  family — with  a  due  sense  of  the  ex- 
cellence of  the  garden,  and  the  wealth  of  its  owner ;  and  when 
he  has  exhausted  the  subject,  he  goes  to  sleep. 

There  is  another  and  a  very  different  class  of  men,  whose 
recreation  is  their  garden.  An  individual  of  this  class,  resides 
some  short  distance  from  town — say  in  the  Hampstead-road, 
or  thS  Kilburn-road,  or  any  other  road  where  the  houses  are 
small  and  neat,- and  have  little  slips  of  back  garden.  He  and 
his  wife — who  is  as  clean  and  compact  a  little  body  as  him- 
self— have  occupied  the  same  house  ever  since  he  retired  from 
business  twenty  years  ago.  They  have  no  family.  They  once 
had  a  son,  who  died  at  about  five  years  old.  The  child's  por- 
trait  hangs  over  the  mantelpiece  in  the  best  sitting-room,  and 
a  little  cart  he  used  to  draw  about,  is  carefully  preserved  as  a 
relic. 

In  fine  weather  the  old  gentleman  is  almost  constantly  in 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


the  garden  ;  and  when  it  is  too  wet  to  go  into  it,  he  will  look 
out  of  the  window  at  it,  by  the  hour  together.  He  has  always 
something  to  do  there,  and  you  will  see  him  digging,  and 
sweeping,  and  cutting,  and  planting,  with  manifest  delight. 
In  spring  time,  there  is  no  end  to  the  sowing  of  seeds,  and 
sticking  little  bits  of  wood  over  them,  with  labels,  which  look 
1  ike  epitaphs  to  their  memory ;  and  in  the  evening,  when 
C  ie  sun  has  gone  down,  the  perseverance  with  which  he  lugs  a 
^reat  watering-pot  about  is  perfectly  astonishing.  The  only 
other  recreation  he  has,  is  the  newspaper,  which  he  peruses 
every  day,  from  beginning  to  end,  generally  reading  the  most 
interesting  pieces  of  intelligence  to  his  wife,  during  breakfast. 
The  old  lady  is  very  fond  of  flowers,  as  the  hyacinth-glasses  in 
the  parlor-window,  and  geranium-pots  in  the  little  front  court, 
testify.  She  takes  great  pride  in  the  garden  too  :  and  when 
one  of  the  four  fruit-trees  produces  rather  a  larger  gooseberry 
than  usual,  it  is  carefully  preserved  under  a  wineglass  on  the 
sideboard,  for  the  edification  of  visitors,  w^ho  are  duly  informed 
that  Mr.  So-and-so  planted  the  tree  which  produced  it,  with 
his  own  hands.  On  a  summer's  evening,  w^hen  the  large 
watering-pot  has  been  filled  and  emptied  some  fourteen  times, 
and  the  old  couple  have  quite  exhausted  themselves  by  trotting 
about,  you  will  see  them  sitting  happily  together  in  the  little 
summer-house,  enjoying  the  calm  and  peace  of  the  twilight, 
and  w^atching  the  shadows  as  they  fall  upon  the  garden,  and 
gradually  growing  thicker  and  more  sombre,  obscure  the  tints 
of  their  gayest  flowers — no  bad  emblem  of  the  years  that  have 
silently  rolled  over  their  heads,  deadening  in  their  course  the 
brightest  hues  of  early  hopes  and  feelings  which  have  long 
since  faded  away.  These  are  their  only  recreation,  and  they 
require  no  more.  They  have  within  themselves,  the  mate 
rials  of  comfort  and  content ;  and  the  only  anxiety  of  each,  is 
to  die  before  the  other. 

This  is  no  ideal  sketch.  There  used  to  be  many  old  people 
of  this  description ;  their  numbers  may  have  diminished,  and 
may  decrease  still  more.  Whether  the  course  female  educa- 
tion has  taken  oi  late  days — whether  the  pursuit  of  giddy 
frivolities,  and  empty  nothings,  has  tended  to  unfit  women  for 
that  quiet  domestic  life  in  which  they  show  far  more  beauti- 
fully than  in  the  most  crowded  assembly,  is  a  question  we 
should  feel  little  gratification  in  discussing  :  we  hope  not. 

Let  us  turn  now,  to  another  portion  of  the  London  popula- 
tion, whose  recreations  present  about  as  strong  a  contrast  as 


LONDON  RECREA  TIONS. 


441 


can  well  be  conceived — we  mean  the  Sunday  pleasures  ;  and 
let  us  beg  our  readers  to  imagine  themselves  stationed  by  our 
side  in  some  well-known  rural  "  Tea-gardens." 

The  heat  is  intense  this  afternoon,  and  the  people,  of  whom 
there  are  additional  parties  arriving  every  moment,  look  as 
warm  as  the  tables  which  have  been  recently  painted,  and  have 
the  appearance  of  being  red-hot.  What  a  dust  and  noise ! 
Men  and  women — boys  and  girls — sweethearts  and  married 
people — babies  in  arms,  and  children  in  chaises — pipes  and 
shrimps — cigars  and  periwinkles — tea  and  tobacco.  Gentle- 
men, in  alarming  waistcoats,  and  steel  watch-guards,  prom- 
enading about,  three  abreast,  with  surprising  dignity  (or  as 
the  gentleman  in  the  next  box  facetiously  observes,  "  cutting 
it  uncommon  fat !  — ladies,  with  great,  long,  white  pocket- 
handkerchiefs  like  small  table-cloths,  in  their  hands,  chasing 
one  another  on  the  grass  in  the  most  playful  and  interesting  man- 
ner, with  the  view  of  attracting  the  attention  of  the  aforesaid 
gentlemen — husbands  in  perspective  ordering  bottles  of  ginger- 
beer  for  the  objects  of  their  affections,  with  a  lavish  disregard 
of  expense  ;  and  the  said  objects  washing  down  huge  quanti- 
ties of  "shrimps"  and  "winkles,"  with  an  equal  disregard  of 
their  own  bodily  health  and  subsequent  comfort — boys,  with 
great  silk  hats  just  balanced  on  the  top  of  their  heads,  smoking 
cigars,  and  trying  to  look  as  if  they  liked  them — gentlemen  in 
pink  shirts  and  blue  waistcoats,  occasionally  upsetting  either 
themselves,  or  somebody  else,  with  their  own  canes. 

Some  of  the  finery  of  these  people  provokes  a  smile,  but 
they  are  all  clean,  and  happy,  and  disposed  to  be  good-natured 
and  sociable.  Those  two  motherly-looking  women  in  the 
smart  pelisses,  wdio  are  chatting  so  confidentially,  inserting  a 
"  ma'am  "  at  every  fourth  word,  scraped  an  acquaintance  about 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago  :  it  originated  in  admiration  of  the 
little  boy  who  belongs  to  one  of  them — that  diminutive  speci- 
men of  mortality  in  the  three-cornered  pink  satin  hat  with 
black  feathers.  The  two  men  in  the  blue  coats  and  drab 
trousers,  who  are  walking  up  and  down,  smoking  their  pipes, 
are  their  husbands.  The  party  in  the  opposite  box  are  a 
pretty  fair  specimen  of  the  generality  of  the  visitors.  These 
are  the  father  and  mother,  and  old  grandmother  :  a  young 
man  and  woman,  and  an  individual  addressed  by  the  eupho- 
nious title  of  "  Uncle  Bill,"  who  is  evidently  the  wit  of  the  party. 
They  have  some  half-dozen  children  with  them,  but  it  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  notice  the  fact,  for  that  is  a  matter  of 


442 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


course  here.  Every  woman  in  **the  gardens/'  who  has  been 
married  for  any  length  of  time,  must  have  had  twins  on  two 
or  three  occasions;  it  is  impossible  to  account  for  the  extent 
of  juvenile  population  in  any  other  way. 

Observe  the  inexpressible  delight  of  the  old  grandmother, 
at  Uncle  Bill's  splendid  joke  of  ^'  tea  for  four :  bread-and  but- 
ter for  forty  ; "  and  the  loud  explosion  of  mirth  which  follows 
his  wafering  a  paper  ^'  pigtail  "  on  the  waiter's  collar.  The 
young  man  is  evidently  "keeping  company"  with  Uncle  Bill's 
niece  :  and  Uncle  Bill's  hints — such  as  "  Don't  forget  me  at 
the  dinner,  you  know,"  "I  shall  look  out  for  the  cake,  Sally," 
"  I'll  be  godfather  to  your  first — wager  it's  a  boy,"  and  so 
forth,  are  equally  embarrassing  to  the  young  people,  and  de- 
lightful to  the  elder  ones.  As  to  the  old  grandmother,  she  is 
in  perfect  ecstasies,  and  does  nothing  but  laugh  herself  into  fits 
of  coughing,  until  they  have  finished  the  "  gin-and-water  warm 
with,"  of  which  Uncle  Bill  .ordered  "^glasses  round"  after  tea, 
"  just  to  keep  the  night  air  out,  and  do  it  up  comfortable  and 
riglar  arter  sitch  an  as-tonishing  hot  day  !  " 

It  is  getting  dark,  and  the  people  begin  to  move.  The 
field  leading  to  town  is  quite  full  of  them  ;  the  little  hand 
chaises  are  dragged  wearily  along,  the  children  are  tired  and 
amuse  themselves  and  the  company  generally  by  crying,  or 
resort  to  the  much  more  pleasant  expedient  of  going  to  sleep 
— the  mothers  begin  to  wish  that  they  were  at  home  again — 
sweethearts  grow  more  sentimental  than  ever,  as  the  time  for 
parting  arrives — the  gardens  look  mournful  enough,  by  the 
light  of  the  two  lanterns  which  hang  against  the  trees  for  the 
convenience  of  smokers — and  the  waiters  who  have  been 
running  about  incessantly  for  the  last  six  hours,  think  they 
feel  a  little  tired,  as  they  count  their  glasses  and  their  gains. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  RIVER. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  the  water  ?  "  is  a  question  very  fre- 
quently asked,  in  hot  summer  weather,  by  amphibious-look' 
ing  young  men.    "  Very,"  is  the  general  reply,  "  An't  you  ? 


THE  RIVER. 


443 


1^^^  Hardly  ever  off  it,"  is  the  response,  accompanied  by  sun- 
dry adjectives,  expressive  of  the  speaker's  heartfelt  admiration 
of  that  element.  Now,  with  all  respect  for  the  opinion  of 
society  in  general,  and  cutter  clubs  in  particular,  we  humbly 
suggest  that  some  of  the  most  painful  reminiscences  in  the 
mind  of  every  individual  who  has  occasionally  disported  him- 
self on  the  Thames,  must  be  connected  with  his  aquatic 
recreations.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  successful  <water-party  ? — • 
or  to  put  the  question  in  a  still  more  intelligible  form,  who 
ever  saw  one  t  We  have  been  on  water  excursions  out  of 
number,  but  we  solemnly  declare  that  we  cannot  call  to  mind 
one  single  occasion  of  the  kind,  which  was  not  marked  by 
more  miseries  than  any  one  would  suppose  could  be  reason- 
ably crowded  into  the  space  of  some  eight  or  nine  hours. 
Something  has  always  gone  wrong.  Either  the  cork  of  the 
salad-dressing  has  come  out,  or  the  most  anxiously  expected 
member  of  the  party  has  not  come  out,  or  the  most  disagree- 
able man  in  the  company  would  come  out,  or  a  child  or  two 
have  fallen  into  the  water,  or  the  gentleman  wdio  undertook 
to  steer  has  endangered  everybody's  life  all  the  way,  or  the 
gentlemen  who  volunteered  to  row  have  been  out  of  practice,'^ 
and  performed  very  alarming  evolutions,  putting  their  oars 
down  into  the  water  and  not  being  able  to  get  them  up  again, 
or  taking  terrific  pulls  without  putting  them  in  at  all  ;  in 
either  case,  pitching  over  on  the  backs  of  their  heads  with 
startling  violence,  and  exhibiting  the  soles  of  their  pumjDs  to 
the  "  sitters  "  in  the  boat,  in  a  very  humiliating  manner. 

We  grant  that  the  banJ^s  of  the  Thames  are  very  beautiful 
at  Richmond  and  Twickenham,  and  other  distant  havens, 
often  sought  though  seldom  reached ;  but  from  the  "  Red-us  " 
back  to  Blackfriars-bridge,  the  scene  is  wonderfully  changed. 
The  Penitentiary  is  a  noble  building,  no  doubt,  and  the  sport- 
ive youths  who  go  in  "  at  that  particular  part  of  the  river,  on 
a  summer's  evening,  may  be  all  very  well  in  perspective  ;  but 
when  you  are  obliged  to  keep  in  shore  coming  home,  and  the 
young  ladies  will  color  up,  and  look  perseveringly  the  other 
way,  while  the  married  dittoes  cough  slightly,  and  stare  very 
hard  at  the  water,  you  feel  awkward — especially  if  you  happen 
to  have  been  attempting  the  most  distant  approach  to  senti- 
mentality, for  an  hour  or  two  previously. 

Although  experience  and  suffering  have  produced  in  our 
minds  the  result  we  have  just  stated,  we  are  by  no  means  blind 
to  a  proper  sense  of  the  fun  which  a  looker  on  may  extract 


444 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 


from  the  amateurs  of  boating.  What  can  be  more  amusing 
than  Searle's  yard  on  a  fine  Sunday  morning  ?  It's  a  E.ich- 
mond  tide,  and  some  dozen  boats  are  preparing  for  the  recep- 
tion of  the  parties  who  have  engaged  them.  Two  or  three 
fellows  in  great  rough  trousers  and  Guernsey  shirts,  are 
getting  them  ready  by  easy  stages  ;  now  coming  down  the 
yard  with  a  pair  of  sculls  and  a  cushion — then  having  a  chat 
with  the  "  jack,"  who,  like  all  his  tribe,  seems  to  be  wholly  in- 
capable of  doing  anything  but  lounging  about — then  going 
back  again,  and  returning  with  a  rudder-line  and  a  stretcher — 
then  solacing  themselves  with  another  chat — and  then  wonder- 
ing, with  their  hands  in  their  capacious  pockets,  "  where  them 
gentlemen's  got  to  as  ordered  the  six."  One  of  these,  the  head 
man,  with  the  legs  of  his  trousers  carefully  tucked  up  at  the 
bottom,  to  admit  the  water,  we  presume — for  it  is  an  element 
in  which  he  is  infinitely  more  at  home  than  on  land — is  quite 
a  character,  and  shares  with  the  defunct  oyster-swallowers  the 
celebrated  name  of  "  Dando."  Watch  him,  as  taking  a  few 
minutes'  respite  from  his  toils,  he  negligently  seats  himself  on 
the  edge  of  a  boat,  and  fans  his  broad  bushy  chest  with  a  cap 
scarcely  half  so  furry.  Look  at  his  magnificent,  though  red- 
dish whiskers,  and  mark  the  somewhat  native  humor  with 
which  he  "  chaffs  "  the  boys  and  'prentices,  or  cunningly 
gammons  the  gen'lm*n  into  the  gift  of  a  glass  of  gin,  of 
which  we  verily  believe  he  swallows  in  one  day  as  much  as 
any  six  ordinary  men,  without  ever  being  one  atom  the  worse 
for  it. 

But  the  party  arrives,  and  Dando,  relieved  from  his  state 
of  uncertainty,  starts  up  into  activity.  They  approach  in  full 
aquatic  costume,  with  round  blue  jackets,  striped  shirts,  and 
caps  of  all  sizes  and  patterns,  from  the  velvet  skull-cap  of 
French  manufacture,  to  the  easy  head-dress  familiar  to  the 
students  of  the  old  spelling-books,  as  having,  on  the  authority 
of  the  portrait,  formed  part  of  the  costume  of  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Dilworth. 

This  is  the  most  amusing  time  to  observe  a  regular  Sun- 
day water-party.  There  has  evidently  been  up  to  this  period 
no  inconsiderable  degree  of  boasting  on  everybody's  part  rel- 
ative to  his  knowledge  of  navigation  ;  the  sight  of  the  water 
rapidly  cools  their  courage,  and  the  air  of  self-denial  with  which 
each  of  them  insists  on  somebody  else's  taking  an  oar,  is 
perfectly  delightful.  At  length,  after  a  great  deal  of  changing 
and  fidgeting,  consequent  upon  the  election  of  a  stroke-oar; 


THE  RIVER, 


445 


the  inability  of  one  gentleman  to  pull  on  this  side,  of  another 
to  pull  on  that,  and  of  a  third  to  pull  at  all,  the  boat's  crew 
are  seated.  "  Shove  her  off  !  ''  cries  the  cockswain,  who  looks 
as  easy  and  comfortable  as  if  he  were  steering^in  the  Bay  of 
Biscay.  The  order  is  obeyed  ;  the  boat  is  immediately  turned 
completely  round,  and  proceeds  towards  Westminster-bridge, 
amidst  such  a  splashing  and  struggling  as  never  was  seen  be- 
fore, except  when  the  Royal  George  went  down.  Back 
wa'ater,  sir,"  shouts  Dando,  Back  wa'ater,  you  sir,  aft ; " 
upon  which  everybody  thinking  he  must  be  the  individual  re^ 
ferred  to,  they  all  back  water,  and  back  comes  the  boat,  stern 
first,  to  the  spot  whence  it  started.  "  Back  water,  you  sir, 
aft  ;  pull  round,  you  sir,  for'ad,  can't  you  ?  "  shouts  Dando,  in 
a  frenzy  of  excitement.  "Pull. round,  Tom,  can't  you  ?  "  re- 
echoes one  of  the  party.  "  Tom  an't  for'ad, replied  another. 
"  Yes,  he  is,"  cries  a  third  ;  and  the  unfortunate  young  man, 
at  the  imminent  risk  of  breaking  a  blood-vessel,  pulls  and  pulls, 
until  the  head  of  the  boat  fairly  lies  in  the  direction  of  Vaux- 
hall-bridge.  That's  right — now  pull  all  on  you  !  "  shouts 
Dando  again,  adding,  in  an  under  tone,  to  somebody  b)^  him, 
"Blowed  if  hever  I  see  sich  a  set  of  muffs  !  "  and  away  jogs 
the  boat  in  a  zigzag  direction,  every  one  of  the  six  oars  dip- 
ping into  the  water  at  a  different  time  ;  and  the  yard  is  once 
more  clear,  until  the  arrival  of  the  next  party. 

A  well-contested  rowing-match  on  the  Thames,  is  a  very 
lively  and  interesting  scene.  The  water  is  studded  with  boats 
of  all  sorts,  kinds,  and  descriptions  ;  places  in  the  coal-barges 
at  the  different  wharfs  are  let  to  crowds  of  spectators,  beer 
and  tobacco  flow  freely  about  ;  men,  women,  and  children 
wait  for  the  start  in  breathless  expectation  ;  cutters  of  six 
and  eight  oars  glide  gently  up  and  down,  waiting  to  accompany 
their  proteges  during  the  race  ;  bands  of  music  add  to  the  ani- 
mation, if  not  to  the  harmony  of  the  scene  ;  groups  of  water- 
men are  assembled  at  the  different  stairs,  discussing  the 
merits  of  the  respective  candidates  ;  and  the  prize  wherry, 
which  is  rowed  slowly  about  by  a  pair  of  sculls,  is  an  object 
of  general  interest. 

Two  o'clock  strikes,  everybody  looks  anxiously  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  bridge  through  which  the  candidates  for  the 
prize  will  come — half-past  two,  and  the  general  attention 
which  has  been  preserved  so  long  begins  to  flag,  when  sud- 
denly a  gun  is  heard,  and  a  noise  of  distant  hurra'ing  along 
each  bank  of  the  river — every  head  is  bent  forward — the 


446  SKE  TCHES  B  V  BOZ. 

noise  draws  nearer  and  nearer — the  boats  which  have  been 
waiting  at  the  bridge  start  briskly  up  the  river,  and  a  well- 
manned  galley  shoots  through  the  arch,  and  sitters  cheering 
on  the  boats  behind  them,  which  are  not  yet  visible. 

Here  they  are,"  is  the  general  cry — and  through  darts 
the  first  boat,  the  men  in  her,  stripped  to  the  skin,  and  exert- 
ing every  muscle  to  preserve  the  advantage  they  have  gained 
— four  other  boats  follow  close  astern  :  there  are  not  two 
boats'  length  between  them — the  shouting  is  tremendous,  and 
the  interest  intense.  "  Go  on.  Pink  " — Give  it  her,  Red  " — 
"  Sulliwin  for  ever  " — "  Bravo  !  George  " — "  Now,  Tom,  now 
■ — now — now — why  don't  your  partner  stretch  out.'*" — "Two 
pots  to  a  pint  on  Yellow,"  &c.,  &c.  Every  little  public-house 
fires  its  gun,  and  hoists  its  flag ;  and  the  men  who  win  the 
heat,  come  in,  amidst  a  splashing  and  shouting,  and  banging 
and  confusion,  which  no  one  can  imagine  who  has  not  wit- 
nessed it,  and  of  which  any  description  would  convey  a  very 
faint  idea. 

One  of  the  most  amusing  places  we  know,  is  the  steam- 
wharf  of  the  London  Bridge,  or  St.  Katharine's  Dock  Com- 
pany, on  a  Saturday  morning  in  summer,  when  the  Gravesend 
and  Margate  steamers  are  usually  crowded  to  excess  ;  and  as 
we  have  just  taken  a  glance  at  the  river  above  bridge,  we 
hope  our  readers  will  not  object  to  accompany  us  on  board  a 
Gravesend  packet. 

Coaches  are  every  moment  setting  down  at  the  entrance  to 
the  wharf,  and  the  stare  of  bewildered  astonishment  with 
which  the  "  fares  "  resign  themselves  and  their  luggage  into 
the  hands  of  the  porters,  who  seize  all  the  packages  at  once 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  run  away  with  them,  heaven  knows 
where,  is  laughable  in  the  extreme.  A  Margate  boat  lies 
alongside  the  wharf,  the  Gravesend  boat  (which  starts  first) 
lies  alongside  that  again  ;  and  as  a  temporary  communication 
is  formed  between  the  two,  by  means  of  a  plank  and  hand-rail, 
the  natural  confusion  of  the  scene  is  by  no  means  dimin-= 
ished. 

"  Gravesend  ?  "  inquires  a  stout  father  of  a  stout  family, 
who  follow  him,  under  the  guidance  of  their  mother,  and  a 
servant,  at  no  small  risk  of  two  or  three  of  them  being  left 
behind  in  the  confusion.    "  Gravesend  ?  " 

"  Pass  on,  if  you  please,  sir,"  replies  the  attendant — "  other 
boat,  sir." 

Hereupon  the  stout  father,  being  rather  mystified,  and  the 


THE  RIVER. 


447 


stout  mother  rather  distracted  by  maternal  anxiety,  the  whole 
party  deposit  themselves  in  the  Margate  boat,  and  after  hav- 
ing congratulated  himself  on  having  secured  very  comfortable 
seats,  the  stout  father  sallies  to  the  chimney  to  look  for  his 
luggage,  which  he  has  a  faint  recollection  of  having  given 
some  man,  something,  to  take  somewhere.  No  luggage,  how- 
ever,  bearing  the  most  remote  resemblance  to  his  own,  in 
shape  or  form,  is  to  be  discovered  ;  on  which  the  stout  father 
calls  very  loudly  for  an  officer,  to  whom  he  states  the  case,  in 
the  presence  of  another  father  of  another  family — a  little  thin 
man — who  entirely  concurs  wdth  him  (the  stout  father)  in 
thinking  that  it's  high  time  something  was  done  with  these 
steam  companies,  and  that  as  the  Corporation  Bill  failed  to  do 
it,  something  else  must ;  for  really  people's  property  is  not  to  be 
sacrificed  in  this  way  ;  and  that  if  the  luggage  isn't  restored 
without  delay,  he  will  take  care  it  shall  be  put  in  the  papers, 
for  the  public  is  not  to  be  the  victim  of  these  great  monopo- 
lies. To  this,  the  officer,  in  his  turn,  replies,  that  that  com- 
pany, ever  since  it  has  been  St.  Kat'rine's  Dock  Company, 
has  protected  life  and  property ;  that  if  it  had  been  the  Lon- 
don Bridge  Wharf  Company,  indeed,  he  shouldn't  have  won- 
dered, seeing  that  the  morality  of  that  company  (they  being 
the  opposition)  can't  be  answered  for,  by  no  one  ;  but  as  it  is, 
he's  convinced  there  must  be  some  mistake,  and  he  w^ouldn't 
mind  making  a  solemn  oath  afore  a  magistrate  that  thegentle- 
man'll  find  his  luggage  afore  he  gets  to  Margate. 

Here  the  stout  father,  thinking  he  is  making  a  capital 
point,  replies,  that  as  it  happens,  he  is  not  going  to  Margate 
at  all,  and  that  "  Passenger  to  Gravesend  "  was  on  the  lug- 
gage, in  letters  of  full  two  inches  long  ;  on  which  the  officer 
rapidly  explains  the  mistake,  and  the  stout  mother,  and  the 
stout  children,  and  the  servant,  are  hurried  with  all  possible 
despatch  on  board  the  Gravesend  boat,  which  they  reached 
just  in  time  to  discover  that  their  luggage  is  there,  and  that 
their  comfortable  seats  are  not.  Then  the' bell,  which  is  the 
signal  for  the  Gravesend  boat  starting,  begins  to  ring  most 
furiously  :  and  people  keep  time  to  the  bell,  by  running  in  and 
out  of  our  boat  at  a  double-quick  pace.  The  bell  stops ;  the 
boat  starts  :  people  who  have  been  taking  leave  of  their  friends 
on  board,  are  carried  away  against  their  will ;  and  people  who 
have  been  taking  leave  of  their  friends  on  shore,  find  that  they 
have  performed  a  very  needless  ceremony,  in  consequence  of 
their  not  being  carried  away  at  all.    The  regular  passengers, 


44S 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


who  have  season  tickets,  go  below  to  breakfast ;  people  who 
have  purchased  morning  papers,  compose  themselves  to  read 
them ;  and  people  who  have  not  been  down  the  river  before^ 
think  that  both  the  shipping  and  the  water,  look  a  great  deal 
better  at  a  distance. 

When  we  get  down  about  as  far  as  Black  wall,  and  begin 
to  move  at  a  quicker  rate,  the  spirits  of  the  passengers  appear 
to  rise  in  proportion.  Old  women  who  have  brought  large 
wicker  hand-baskets  with  them,  set  seriously  to  work  at  the 
demolition  of  heavy  sandwiches,  and  pass  round  a  wine-glass, 
which  is  frequently  replenished  from  a  flat  bottle  Hke  a  stom- 
ach-warmer, with  considerable  glee  :  handing  it  first  to  the 
gentleman  in  the  foraging-cap,  who  plays  the  harp — partly  as 
an  expression  of  satisfaction  with  his  previous  exertions,  and 
partly  to  induce  him  to  play  Dumbledumb-deary,"  for 
"  Alick  "  to  dance  to  ;  which  being  done,  Alick,  who  is  a 
damp  earthy  child  in  red  worsted  socks,  takes  certain  small 
jumps  upon  the  deck,  to  the  unspeakable  satisfaction  of  his 
family  circle.  Girls  who  have  brought  the  first  volume  of 
some  new  novel  in  their  reticule,  become  extremely  plaintive, 
and  expatiate  to  Mr.  Brown,  or  young  Mr.  O'Brien,  who  has 
been  looking  over  them,  on  the  blueness  of  the  sky,  and 
.brightness  of  the  water  ;  on  which  Mr.  Brown  or  Mr.  O'Brien, 
as  the  case  may  be,  remarks  in  a  low  voice  that  he  has  been 
quite  insensible  of  late  to  the  beauties  of  nature — that  his 
whole  thoughts  and  wishes  have  centred  in  one  object  alone 
— whereupon  the  young  lady  looks  up,  and  failing  in  her  at- 
tempt to  appear  unconscious,  looks  down  again  ;  and  turns 
over  the  'next  leaf  with  great  difficulty,  in  order  to  afford  op- 
portunity for  a  lengthened  pressure  of  the  hand. 

Telescopes,  sandwiches,  and  glasses  of  brandy-and-water 
cold  without,  begin  to  be  in  great  requisition  ;  and  bashful 
men  who  have  been  looking  down  the  hatchway  at  the  engine, 
fmd,  to  their  great  relief,  a  subject  on  which  they  can  con- 
verse with  one  another — and  a  copious  one  too — Steam. 

Wonderful  thing  steam,  sir."  ^^Ah!*  (a  deep-drawn 
sigh)  it  is  indeed,  sir."  Great  power,  sir."  Immense — 
immense!"  "Great  deal  done  by  steam,  sir,"  *^Ah!  (an- 
other sigh  at  the  immensity  of  the  subject,  and  a  knowing 
shake  of  the  head)  you  may  say  that,  sir."  "  Still  in  its  in- 
fancy, they  say,  sir."  Novel  remarks  of  this  kind,  are  gen- 
erally the  commencement  of  a  conversation  which  is  pro- 
longed until  the  conclusion  of  the  trip,  and,  perhaps,  lays  the 


ASJLEY'S,  44g 

foundation  of  a  speaking  acquaintance  between  half-a-dozei? 
gentlemen,  who,  having  their  families  at  Gravesend,  take 
season-tickets  for  the  boat,  and  dine  on  board  regularly  ever}^ 
afternoon. 


CHAPTER  XL 
astley's. 

We  never  see  any  very  large,  staring,  black  Roman  cap- 
itals, in  a  book,  or  shop  window,  or  placard  on  a  wall,  with- 
out their  immediately  recalling  to  our  mind  an  indistinct  and 
confused  recollection  of  the  time  when  we  were  first  initiated 
in  the  mysteries  of  the  alphabet.  We  almost  fancy  we  see 
the  pin's  point  following  the  letter,  to  impress  its  form  more 
strongly  on  our  bewildered  imagination ;  and  wince  involun- 
tarily, as  we  remember  the  hard  knuckles  with  which  the  rev- 
erend old  lady  who  instilled  into  our  mind  the  first  principles 
of  education  for  ninepence  per  week,  or  ten  and  sixpence  per 
quarter,  was  wont  to  poke  our  juvenile  head  occasionally,  by 
way  of  adjusting  the  confusion  of  ideas  in  which  we  were  gen- 
erally involved.  The  same  kind  of  feeling  pursues  us  in 
many  other  instances,  but  there  is  no  place  which  recalls 
so  strongly  our  recollections  of  childhood  as  Astley's.  It 
was  not  a  "  Royal  Amphitheatre  "  in  those  days,  nor  had 
Ducrow  arisen  to  shed  the  light  of  classic  taste  and  portable 
gas  over  the  sawdust  of  the  circus  ;  but  the  whole  character 
of  the  place  was  the  same,  the  pieces  were  the  same,  the 
clown's  jokes  were  the  same,  the  riding-masters  were  equally 
grand,  the  comic  performers  equally  witty,  the  tragedians 
equally  hoarse,  and  the  "  highly-trained  chargers  "  equally 
spirited.  Astley's  has  altered  for  the  better — we  have  changed 
for  the  worse.  Our  histrionic  taste  is  gone,  and  with  shame 
we  confess,  that  we  are  far  more  delighted  and  amused  with 
the  audience,  than  with  the  pageantry  we  once  so  highly 
appreciated. 

We  like  to  watch  a  regular  Astley's  party  in  the  Easter 
or  Midsummer  holidays  —  pa  and  ma,  and  nine  or  ten 
children,  varying  from  five  foot  six  to  two  foot  eleven  :  from 
fourteen  years  of  age  to  four.    We  had  just  taken  our  seat 

29 


45^ 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


in  one  of  the  boxes,  in  the  centre  of  the  house,  the  othei 
night,  when  the  next  was  occupied  by  just  such  a  party  as 
we  should  have  attempted  to  describe,  had  we  depicted  our 
beau  ideal  of  a  group  of  Astley's  visitors. 

First  of  all  there  came  three  little  boys  and  a  little  girl, 
who,  in  pursuance  of  pa's  directions,  issued  in  a  very  audi- 
ble voice  from  the  box-door,  occupied  the  front  row  j  then 
two  more  little  girls  were  ushered  in  by  a  young  lady,  evi- 
dently the  governess.  Then  came  three  more  little  boys, 
dressed  like  the  first,  in  blue  jackets  and  trousers,  with  lay- 
down  shirt-collars  :  then  a  child  in  a  braided  frock  and  high 
state  of  astonishment,  with  very  large  round  eyes,  opened  to 
their  utmost  width,  was  lifted  over  the  seats — a  process  which 
occasioned  a  considerable  display  of  little  pink  legs — then 
came  ma  and  pa,  and  then  the  eldest  son,  a  boy  of  fourteen 
years  old,  who  was  evidently  trying  to  look  as  if  he  did  not 
belong  to  the  family. 

The  first  five  minutes  were  occupied  in  taking  the  shawls 
off  the  little  girls,  and  adjusting  the  bows  which  ornamented 
their  hair  ;  then  it  was  providentially  discovered  that  one 
of  the  little  boys  was  seated  behind  a  pillar  and  could  not 
see,  so  the  governess  was  stuck  behind  the  pillar,  and  the 
boy  lifted  into  her  place.  Then  pa  drilled  the  boys,  and 
directed  the  stowing  away  of  their  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and 
ma  having  first  nodded  and  winked  to  the  governess  to  pull 
the  girls'  frocks  a  little  more  off  their  shoulders,  stood  up  to 
review  the  little  troop — an  inspection  which  appeared  to 
terminate  much  to  her  own  satisfaction,  for  she  looked  with  a 
complacent  air  at  pa,  who  was  standing  up  at  the  further  end 
of  the  seat.  Pa  returned  the  glance,  and  blew  his  nose  very 
emphatically  ;  and  the  poor  governess  peeped  out  from  be- 
hind the  pillar,  and  timidly  tried  to  catch  ma's  eye,  with  a 
look  expressive  of  her  high  admiration  of  the  whole  family. 
Then  two  of  the  little  boys  w^ho  had  been  discussing  the  point 
whether  Astley's  was  more  than  twice  as  large  as  Drury 
Lane,  a-^reed  to  refer  it  to  "  George  "  for  his  decision  ;  at 
which  "  George,"  who  was  no  other  than  the  young  gentle- 
man before  noticed,  waxed  indignant,  and  remonstrated  in  no 
very  gentle  terms  on  the  gross  impropriety  of  having  his  name 
repeated  in  so  loud  a  voice  at  a  public  place,  on  which  all 
the  children  laughed  very  heartily,  and  one  of  the  little  boys 
wound  up  by  expressing  his  opinion,  that  "  George  began  to 
think  himself  quite  a  man  now,"  whereupon  both  pa  and  ma 


AS  TIE  vs. 


laughed  too  ;  and  George  (who  carried  a  dress  cane  and  was 
cultivating  whiskers)  muttered  that  William  always  was  en- 
couraged in  his  impertinence  j and  assumed  a  look  of  pro- 
found contempt,  which  lasted  the  whole  evening. 

The  play  began,  and  the  interest  of  the  little  boys  knew 
no  bounds.  Pa  was  clearly  interested  too,  although  he  very 
unsuccessfully  endeavored  to  look  as  if  he  Vv^asn't.  As  for  ma, 
she  was  perfectly  overcome  by  the  drollery  of  the  principal 
comedian,  and  laughed  till  every  one  of  the  immense  bows 
on  her  ample  cap  trembled,  at  which  the  governess  peeped 
out  from  behind  the  pillar  again,  and  whenever  she  could 
catch  ma's  eye,  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth,  and  ap- 
peared, as  in  duty  bound,  to  be  in  convulsions  of  laughter 
also.  Then  wdien  the  man  in  the  splendid  armor  vowed  to 
rescue  the  lady  or  perish  in  the  attempt,  the  little  boys  ap- 
plauded vehemently,  especially  one  little  fellow  who  was 
apparently  on  a  visit  to  the  family,  and  had  been  carrying  on 
a  child's  flirtation,  the  whole  evening,  with  a  small  coquette 
of  twelve  years  old,  who  looked  like  a  model  of  her  mamma  on 
a  reduced  scale  ;  and  who,  in  common  with  the  other  little  girls 
(who  generally  speaking  have  even  more  coquettishness  about 
them  than  much  older  ones),  looked  very  properly  shocked, 
when  the  knight's  squire  kissed  the  princess's  confidential 
chambermaid. 

When  the  scenes  in  the  circle  comnnenced,  the  children 
were  more  delighted  than  ever ;  and  the  wish  to  see  what 
was  going  forward,  completely  conquering  pa's  dignity,  he 
stood  up  in  the  box,  and  applauded  as  loudly  as  any  of  them. 
Between  each  feat  of  horsemanship,  the  governess  leant  across 
to  ma,  and  retailed  the  clever  remarks  of  the  children  on  that 
which  had  preceded  :  and  ma,  in  the  openness  of  her  heart, 
offered  the  governess  an  acidulated  drop,  and  the  governess, 
gratified  to  be  taken  notice  of,  retired  behind  her  pillar  again 
with  a  brighter  countenance  :  and  the  whole  party  seemed 
quite  happy,  except  the  exquisite  in  the  back  of  the  box,  who, 
being  too  grand  to  take  any  interest  in  the  children,  and 
too  insignificant  to  be  taken  notice  of  by  anybody  else,  oc- 
cupied himself,  from  time  to  time,  in  rubbing  the  place  where 
the  whiskers  ought  to  be,  and  was  completely  alone  in  his 
glory. 

We  defy  any  one  who  has  been  to  Astley's  two  or  three 
times,  and  is  consequently  capable  of  appreciating  the  per- 
severance with  which  precisely  the  same  jokes  are  repeated 


452 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


night  after  night,  and  season  after  season,  not  to  be  amused 
with  one  part  of  the  performances  at  least — we  mean  the 
scenes  in  the  circle.  For  ourself,  we  know  that  when  the 
hoop,  composed  of  jets  of  gas,  is  let  down,  the  curtain  drawn 
up  for  the  convenience  of  the  half-price  on  their  ejectment 
from  the  ring,  the  orange-peel  cleared  away,  and  the  sawdust 
shaken,  with  mathematical  precision,  into  a  complete  circle, 
we  feel  as  much  enlivened  as  the  youngest  child  present  ; 
and  actually  join  in  the  laugh  which  follows  the  clowi;i's  shrill 
shout  of  "  Here  we  are  1  just  for  old  acquaintance'  sake. 
Nor  can  we  quite  divest  ourself  of  our  old  feeling  of  reverence 
for  the  riding-master,  who  follows  the  clown  with  a  long  Vvdiip 
in  his  hand,  and  bows  to  the  audience  with  graceful  dignity. 
He  is  none  of  your  second-rate  riding  masters  in  nankeen 
dressing-gowns,  with  brown  frogs,  but  the  regular  gentleman- 
attendant  on  the  principal  riders,  who  always  wears  a  military 
uniform  with  a  table-cloth  inside  the  breast  of  the  coat,  in 
which  costume  he  forcibly  reminds  one  of  a  fowl  trussed  for 
roasting.  He  is — but  why  should  we  attempt  to  describe 
that  of  which  no  description  can  convey  an  adequate  idea 
Everybody  knows  the  man,  and  everybody  remembers  his 
polished  boots,  his  graceful  demeanor,  stiff,  as  some  misjudg- 
ing persons  have  in  their  jealousy  considered  it,  and  the 
splendid  head  of  black  hair,  parted  high  on  the  forehead,  to 
impart  to  the  countenance  an  appearance  of  deep  thought  and 
poetic  melancholy.  His  soft  and  pleasing  voice,  too,  is  in 
perfect  unison  with  his  noble  bearing,  as  he  humors  the  clown 
by  indulging  in  a  little  badhiage ;  and  the  striking  recollec- 
tion of  his  own  dignity,  with  which  he  exclaims,  Now,  sir, 
if  you  please,  inquire  for  Miss  Woolford,  sir,"  can  never  be 
forgotten.  The  graceful  air,  too,  with  which  he  introduces 
Miss  Woolford  into  the  arena,  and,  after  assisting  her  to  the 
saddle,  follows  her  fairy  courser  round  the  circle,  can  never 
fail  to  create  a  deep  impression  in  the  bosom  of  every  female 
servant  present. 

When  Miss  Woolford,  and  the  horse,  and  the  orchestra, 
all  stop  together  to  take  breath,  he  urbanely  takes  part  in 
some  such  dialogue  as  the  following  (commenced  by  the 
clown)  :  "  I  say,  sir  !  " — "  Well,  sir  ?  "  (it's  always  conducted 
in  the  politest  manner.) — ''Did  you  ever  happen  to  hear  I 
was  in  the  army,  sir  " — "  No,  sir," — ''  Oh  yes,  sir — I  can 
go  through  my  exercise,  sir." — "  Indeed,  sir!  " — "  Shall  I  do 
it  now,  sir  ?  " — "  If  you  please,  sir  ;  come,  sir — make  haste  " 


ASTLEY'S. 


453 


(a  cut  with  the  long  whip,  and  "  Ha'  done  now — I  don't  like 
it,"  from  the  clown).  Here  the  clown  throws  himself  on  the 
ground,  and  goes  through  a  variety  of  gymnastic  convulsions, 
doubling  himself  up,  and  untying  himself  again,  and  making 
himself  look  very  like  a  man  in  the  most  hopeless  extreme  of 
human  agony,  to  the  vociferous  delight  of  the  gallery,  until 
he  is  interrupted  by  a  second  cut  from  the  long  whip,  and  a 
request  to  see  what  Miss  Woolford's  stopping  for  ?  "  On 
which,  to  the  inexpressible  mirth  of  the  gallery,  he  exclaims, 
Now,  Miss  Woodford,  what  can  I  come  for  to  go,  for  to 
fetch,  for  to  bring,  for  to  carry,  for  to  do,  for  you,  ma'am  ?  " 
On  the  lady's  announcing  with  a  sweet  smile  that  she  wants 
tlie  two  flags,  they  are,  with  sundry  grimaces,  procured  and 
handed  up  ;  the  clown  facetiously  observing  after  the  perform- 
ance of  the  latter  ceremony — He,  he,  oh  1  I  say,  sir.  Miss 
Woolford  knows  me  !  she  smiled  at  me."  Another  cut  from 
the  whip,  a  burst  from  the  orchestra,  a  start  from  the  horse, 
and  round  goes  Miss  Woolford  again  on  her  graceful  perform- 
ance, to  the  delight  of  every  member  of  the  audience,  young 
or  old.  The  next  pause  affords  an  opportunity  for  similar 
witicisms,  the  only  additional  fun  being  that  of  the  clown  mak- 
ing ludicrous  grimaces  at  the  riding-master  every  time  his 
back  is  turned  ;  and  finally  quitting  the  circle  by  jumping  over 
his  head,  having  previously  directed  his  attention  another  way. 

Did  any  of  our  readers  ever  notice  the  class  of  people,  who 
hang  about  the  stage-doors  of  our  minor  theatres  in  the  day- 
time. You  will  rarely  pass  one  of  these  entrances  without 
seeing  a  group  of  three  or  four  men  conversing  on  the  pave- 
ment, with  an  indescribable  public-house-parlor  swagger,  and 
a  kind  of  conscious  air,  peculiar  to  people  of  this  description. 
They  always  seem  to  think  they  are  exhibiting ;  the  lamps  are 
ever  before  them.  That  young  fellow  in  the  faded  brown  coat, 
and  very  full  light  green  trousers,  pulls  down  the  wristbands 
of  his  check  shirt,  as  ostentatiously  as  if  it  were  the  finest 
linen,  and  cocks  the  white  hat  of  the  summer-before-last  as 
knowingly  over  his  right  eye,  as  if  it  were  a  purchase  of  yes- 
terday. Look  at  the  dirty  white  Berlin  gloves,  and  the  cheap 
silk-handkerchief  stuck  in  the  bosom  of  his  threadbare  coat. 
Is  it  possible  to  see  him  for  an  instant,  and  not  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  is  the  walking  gentleman  who  wears  a  blue 
surtout,  clean  collar,  and  white  trousers,  for  half  an  hour,  and 
then  shrinks  into  his  worn-out  scanty  clothes  ;  who  has  to 
boast  night  after  night  of  his  splendid  fortune,  with  the  pain- 


454 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


ful  consciousness  of  a  pound  a-week  and  his  boots  to  find  \  to 
talk  of  his  father's  mansion  in  the  country,  with  a  dreary  rec- 
ollection of  his  own  two-pair  back,  in  the  New  Cut ;  and  to 
be  envied  and  flattered  as  the  favored  lover  of  a  rich  heiress, 
remembering  all  the  while  that  the  ex-dancer  at  home  is  in 
the  family  way,  and  out  of  an  engagement  ? 

Next  to  him,  perhaps,  you  will  see  a  thin  pale  man,  with  a 
very  long  face,  iii  a  suit  of  shining  black,  thoughtfully  knock- 
ing that  part  of  his  boot  which  once  had  a  heel,  with  an  ash 
stick.  He  is  the  man  who  does  the  heavy  business,  such  as 
prosy  fathers,  virtuous  servants,  curates,  landlords,  and  so 
forth. 

By  the  way,  talking  of  fathers,  we  should  very  much  like 
to  see  some  piece  in  which  all  the  dramatis  personjE  were  or- 
phans. Fathers  are  invariably  great  nuisances  on  the  stage, 
and  always  have  to  give  the  hero  or  heroine  a  long  explana- 
tion of  what  was  done  before  the  curtain  rose,  usually  com- 
mencing with  "  It  is  now  nineteen  years,  my  dear  child,  since 
your  blessed  mother  (here  the  old  villain's  voice  falters)  con- 
fided you  to  my  charge.  You  were  then  an  infant,"  &c.,  &c. 
Or  else  they  have  to  discover,  all  of  a  sudden,  that  somebody 
whom  they  have  been  in  constant  communication  with,  dur- 
ing three  long  acts,  without  the  slightest  suspicion,  is  their 
own  child  ;  in  which  case  they  exclaim,  "  Ah  !  what  do  I  see 
This  bracelet !  That  smile  1  These  documents  !  Those 
eyes  !  Can  I  believe  my  senses  ? — It  must  be  ! — Yes — it  is, 
it  is  my  child  !  " — "  My  father  !  "  exclaims  the  child  ;  and 
they  fall  into  each  other's  arms,  and  look  over  each  other's 
shoulders,  and  the  audience  give  three  rounds  of  applause. 

To  return  from  this  digression,  we  were  about  to  say,  that 
these  are  the  sort  of  people  whom  you  see  talking,  and  atti- 
tudinizing, outside  the  stage  doors  of  our  minor  theatres.  At 
Astley's  they  are  always  more  numerous  than  at  any  other 
place.  There  is  generally  a  groom  or  two,  sitting  on  the  win- 
dow-sill, and  two  or  three  dirty  shabby-genteel  men  in  checked 
neckerchiefs,  and  sallow  linen,  lounging  about,  and  carrying, 
perhaps,  under  one  arm,  a  pair  of  stage  shoes  badly  wrapped 
up  in  a  piece  of  old  newspaper.  Some  years  ago  we  used  to 
stand  looking,  open-mouthed,  at  these  men,  with' a  feeling  of 
mysterious  curiosity,  the  very  recollection  of  which  provokes 
a  smile  at  the  moment  we  are  writing.  We  could  not  believe 
that  the  beings  of  light  and  elegance,  in  milk-white  tunics, 
salmon-colored  legs,  and  blue  scarfs,  who  flitted  on  sleek 


GREENWICH  FAIR. 


cream-colored  horses  before  our  eyes  at  night,  with  all  the  aid 
of  lights,  music,  and  artificial  flowers,  could  be  the  pale,  dissi- 
pated-looking creatures  we  beheld  by  day.- 

We  can  hardly  believe  it  now.  Of  the  lower  class  of  ac- 
tors we  have  seen  something,  and  it  requires  no  great  exer- 
cise of  imagination  to  identify  the  walking  gentleman  with  the 
dirty  swell,''  the  comic  singer  with  the  public-house  chair- 
man, or  the  leading  tragedian  with  drunkenness  and  distress  ; 
but  these  other  men  are  mysterious  beings,  never  seen  out  of 
the  ring,  never  beheld  but  in  the  costume  of  gods  and  sylphs. 
With  the  exception  of  Ducrow,  who  can  scarcely  be  classed 
among  them,  who  ever  knew  a  rider  at  Astley's,  or  saw  him 
but  on  horseback  ?  Can  our  friend  in  the  military  uniform, 
ever  appear  in  threadbare  attire,  or  descend  to  the  compara- 
tively un-wadjied  costume  of  every-day  life  ?  Impossible  ! 
We  cannot — we  will  not — believe  it. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

GREENWICH  FAIR. 

If  the  Parks  be  "  the  lungs  of  London,"  we  wonder  what 
Greenwich  Fair  is — a  periodical  breaking  out,  we  suppose,  a 
sort  of  spring-rash  :  a  three  days'  fever,  which  cools  the  blood 
for  six  months  afterwards,  and  at  the  expiration  of  which 
London  is  restored  to  its  old  habits  of  plodding  industry,  as 
suddenly  and  completely  as  if  nothing  had  ever  happened  to 
disturb  them. 

In  our  earlier  days,  we  were  a  constant  frequenter  of  Green^ 
wich  Fair,  for  years.  We  have  proceeded  to,  and  returned 
from  it,  in  almost  every  description  of  vehicle.  We  cannot 
conscientiously  deny  the  charge  of  having  once  made  the 
passage  in  a  spring-van,  accompanied  by  thirteen  gentlemen, 
fourteen  ladies,  an  unlimited  number  of  children,  and  a  barrel 
of  beer ;  and  we  have  a  vague  recollection  of  having,  in  later 
days,  found  ourself  the  eighth  outside,  on  the  top  of  a  hack- 
ney coach,  at  something  past  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  with 
a  rather  confused  idea  of  our  own  name,  or  place  of  resi- 
dence.    We   have  grown  older  since  then,  and  quiet,  and 


45 6  SKE TCHES  BY  BOZ. 

Steady  :  liking  nothing  better  than  to  spend  our  Easter,  and 
all  our  other  holidays,  in  some  quiet  nook,  with  people  of 
whom  we  shall  never  tire ;  but  we  think  we  still  remember 
something  of  Greenwich  Fair,  and  of  those  who  resort  to  it. 
At  all  events  we  wiU  try. 

The  road  to  Greenwich  during  the  whole  of  Easter  Mon- 
day, is  in  a  state  of  perpetual  bustle  and  noise.  Cabs,  hack- 
ney-coaches, "  shay "  carts,  coal-wagons,  stages,  omnibuses, 
sociables,  gigs,  donkey-chaises — all  crammed  with  people  (for 
the  question  never  is,  what  the  horse  can  draw,  but  what  the 
vehicle  will  hold),  roll  along  at  their  utmost  speed;  the  dust 
flies  in  clouds,  ginger-beer  corks  go  off  in  volleys,  the  balcony 
of  every  public-house  is  crowded  with  people,  smoking  and 
drinking,  half  the  private  houses  are  turned  into  tea-shops, 
fiddles  are  in  great  request,  every  little  fruit-shop  displays  its 
stall  of  gilt  gingerbread  and  penny  toys  ;  turnpike  men  are 
in  despair ;  horses  won't  go  on,  and  wheels  will  come  off ; 
ladies  in  "  carawans  "  scream  with  fright  at  every  fresh  con- 
cussion, and  their  admirers  find  it  necessary*  to  sit  remark- 
ably close  to  them,  by  way  of  encouragement ;  servants  of 
all-work,  who  are  not  allowed  to  have  followers,  and  have  got 
a  holiday  for  the  day,  make  the  most  of  their  time  with  the 
faithful  admirer  who  waits  for  a  stolen  interview  at  the  corner 
of  the  street  every  night,  when  they  go  to  fetch  the  beer — 
apprentices  grow  sentimental,  and  straw-bonnet  makers  kind. 
Everybody  is  anxious  to  get  on,  and  actuated  by  the  common 
wish  to  be  at  the  fair,  or  in  the  park,  as  soon  as  possible. 

Pedestrians  linger  in  groups  at  the  roadside,  unable  to  re- 
sist the  allurements  of  the  stout  proprietress  of  the  "  Jack-in- 
the-box,  three  shies  a  penny,"  or  the  more  splendid  offers  of 
the  man  with  three  thimbles  and  a  pea  on  a  little  round  board, 
who  astonishes  the  bewildered  crowd  with  some  such  address 
as,  "  Here's  the  sort  o'  game  to  make  you  laugh  seven  years 
arter  you're  dead,  and  turn  ev'ry  air  on  your  ed  gray  vith  de- 
light !  Three  thimbles  and  vun  little  pea — with  a  vun,  two, 
three,  and  a  two,  three,  vun  :  catch  him  who  can,  look  on, 
keep  your  eyes  open,  and  niver  say  die  !  niver  mind  the 
change,  and  the  expense  :  all  fair  and  above  board  :  them  as 
don't  play  can't  vin,  and  luck  attend  the  ryal  sportsman  ! 
Bet  any  gen'lm'n  any  sum  of  money,  from  harf-a-crown  up  to 
a  suverin,  as  he  doesn't  name  the  thimble  as  kivers  the  pea  !  " 
Here  some  greenhorn  whispers  his  friend  that  he  distinctly 
saw  the  pea  roll  under  the  middle  thimble — an  impression 


GREENWICH  FAIR, 


457 


which  is  immediately  confirmed  by  a  gentleman  in  top-boots, 
K'ho  is  standing  by,  and  who,  in  a  low  tone,  regrets  his  own 
inability  to  bet,  in  consequence  of  having  unfortunately  left 
his  purse  at  home,  but  strongly  urges  the  stranger  not  to 
neglect  such  a  golden  opportunity.  The  "  plant  "  is  success- 
ful, the  bet  is  made,  the  stranger  of  course  loses ;  and  the 
gentleman  with  the  thimbles  consoles  him,  as  he  pockets  the 
money,  with  an  assurance  that  it's  "  all  the  fortin  of  war ! 
this  time  1  vin,  next  time  you  vin  :  nivermind  the  loss  of  two 
bob  and  a  bender !  Do  it  up  in  a  small  parcel,  and  break  out 
in  a  fresh  place.  Here's  the  sort  o'  game,"  &c. — and  the 
eloquent  harangue,  with  such  variations  as  the  speaker's  ex- 
uberant fancy  suggests,  is  again  repeated  to  the  gaping 
crowd,  reinforced  by  the  accession  of  several  new  comers. 

The  chief  place  of  resort  in  the  daytime,  after  the  public- 
houses,  is  the  park,  in  which  the  principal  amusement  is  to 
drag  young  ladies  up  the  steep  hill  which  leads  to  die  ob- 
servatory, and  then  drag  them  down  again,  at  the  very  top  of 
their  speed,  greatly  to  the  derangement  of  their  curls  and 
bonnet-caps,  and  much  to  the  edification  of  lookers-on  from 
below.  "Kiss  in  the  Ring,"  and  '^Threading  my  Grand- 
mother's Needle,"  too,  are  sports  which  receive  their  full 
share  of  patronage.  Love-sick  swains,  under  the  influence 
of  gin-and-water,  and  the  tender  passion,  become  violently 
affectionate  ;  and  the  fair  objects  of  their  regard  enhance  the 
value  of  •  stolen  kisses,  by  a  vast  deal  of  struggling,  and  hold- 
ing down  of  heads,  and  cries  of  "  Oh  !  Ha'  done,  then,  George 
—Oh,  do  tickle  him  for  me,  Mary — Well,  I  never  !  "  and 
similar  Lucretian  ejaculations.  Little  old  men  and  women, 
with  a  small  basket  under  one  arm,  and  a  wineglass,  without 
a  foot,  in  the  other  hand,  tender  "  a  drop  o'  the  right  sort  "  to 
*  the  different  groups  ;  and  young  ladies,  who  are  persuaded  to 
indulge  in  a  drop  of  the  aforesaid  right  sort,  display  a  pleasing 
degree  of  reluctance  to  taste  it,  and  cough  afterwards  with 
great  propriety. 

The  old  pensioners,  who,  for  the  moderate  charge  of  a  pen- 
ny, exhibit  the  mast-house,  the  Thames  and  shipping,  the  place 
where  the  men  used  to  hang  in  chains,  and  other  interesting 
sights,  through  a  telescope,  are  asked  questions  about  objects 
within  the  range  of  the  glass,  which  it  would  puzzle  a 
Solomon  to  answer;  and  requested  to  find  out  particular 
houses  in  particular  streets,  which  it  would  have  been  a  task 
of  some  difficulty  for  Mr.  Horner  (not  the  young  gentleman 


4S8 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


who  ate  mince-pies  with  his  thumb,  but  the  man  of  Colosseum 
notoriety)  to  discover.  Here  and  there,  where  some  three  of 
four  couples  are  sitting  on  the  grass  together,  you  will  see 
a  sun-burnt  woman  in  a  red  cloak  "telling  fortunes''  and 
prophesying  husbands,  which  it  requires  no  extraordinary  ob- 
servation to  describe,  for  the  originals  are  before  her.  There- 
upon, the  lady  concerned  laughs  and  blushes,  and  ultimately 
buries  her  face  in  an  imitation  cambric  handkerchief,  and  the 
gentleman  described  looks  extremely  foolish,  and  squeezes 
her  hand,  and  fees  the  gypsy  liberally ;  and  the  gypsy  goes 
away,  perfectly  satisfied  herself,  and  leaving  those  behind  her 
perfectly  satisfied  also :  and  the  prophecy,  like  many  other 
prophecies  of  greater  importance,  fulfils  itself  in  time. 

But  it  grows  dark,  the  crowd  has  gradually  dispersed,  and 
only  a  few  stragglers  are  left  behind.  The  light  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  church  shows  that  the  fair  is  illuminated  ;  and  the 
distant  noise  proves  it  to  be  filling  fast.  The  spot,  which 
half  an  hour  ago  was  ringing  with  the  shouts  of  boisterous 
mirth,  is  as  calm  and  quiet  as  if  nothing  could  ever  disturb  its 
serenity;  the  fine  old  trees,  the  majestic  building  at  thei"r feet, 
with  the  noble  river  beyond,  glistening  in  the  moonlight,  ap- 
pear in  all  their  beauty,  and  under  their  most  favorable 
aspect ;  the  voices  of  the  boys,  singing  their  evening  hymn, 
are  borne  gently  on  the  air  ;  and  the  humblest  mechanic  who 
'has  been  lingering  on  the  grass  so  pleasant  to  the  feet  that 
beat  the  same  dull  round  from  week  to  week  in  the  paved 
streets  of  London,  feels  proud  to  think  as  he  surveys  the 
scene  before  him,  that  he  belongs  to  the  country  which  has 
selected  such  a  spot  as  a  retreat  for  its  oldest  and  best  de- 
fenders in  the  decline  of  their  lives. 

Five  minutes'  walking  brings  you  to  the  fair  ;  a  scene  cal- 
culated to  awaken  very  different  feelings.  The  entrance  is 
occupied  on  either  side  by  the  vendors  of  gingerbread  and 
toys  ;  the  stalls  are  gayly  lighted  up,  the  most  attractive  goods 
profusely  disposed,  and  unbonneted  young  ladies,  in  their 
zeal  for  the  interest  of  their  employers,  seize  you  by  the  coat, 
and  use  all  the  blandishments  of  "  Do,  dear  " — "  There's  a 
love  " — "  Don't  be  cross,  now,"  &c.,  to  induce  you  to  purchase 
half  a  pound  of  the  real  spice  nuts,  of  which  the  majority  of 
the  regular  fair-goers  carry  a  pound  or  tw^p  as  a  present  sup- 
ply, tied  up  in  a  cotton  pocket-handkerchief.  Occasionally 
you  pass  a  deal  table,  on  which  are  exposed  pen'orths  of 
pickled  salmon  (fennel  included),  in  little  white  saucers ; 


GREENWICH  FAIR, 


4S9 


oysters,  with  shells  as  large  as  cheese-plates,  and  divers  specie 
mens  of  a  species  of  snail  {wilks^  we  think  they  are  called), 
floating  in  a  somewhat  bilious-looking  green  liquid.  Cigars, 
too,  are  in  great  demand  ;  gentlemen  must  smoke,  of  course, 
and  here  they  are,  two  a  penny,  in  a  regular  authentic  cigar- 
box,  with  a  lighted  tallow  candle  in  the  centre. 

Imagine  yourself  in  an  extremely  dense  crowd,  which 
swings  you  to  and  fro,  and  in. and  out,  and  every  way  but  the 
right  one ;  add  to  this  the  screams  of  women,  the  shouts  of 
boys,  the  clanging  of  gongs,  the  firing  of  pistols,  the  ringing 
of  bells,  the  bellowings  of  speaking-trumpets,  the  squeaking 
of  penny  dittoes,  the  noise  of  a  dozen  bands,  with  three 
drums  in  each,  all  playing  different  tunes  at  the  same  time, 
the  hallooing  of  showmen,  and  an  occasional  roar  from  the 
wild-beast  shows  ;  and  you  are  in  the  very  centre  and  heart  of 
the  fair. 

This  immense  booth,  with  the  large  stage  in  front,  so 
brightly  illuminated  with  variegated  lamps,  and  pots  of  burn- 
ing fat,  is  "  Richardson's,"  where  you  have  a  melo-drama 
(with  three  murders  and  a  ghost),  a  pantomime,  a  comic  song, 
an  overture,  and  some  incidental  music,  all  done  in  five-and- 
twenty  minutes. 

The  company  are  now  promenading  outside  in  all  the  dig- 
nity of  wigs,  spangles,  red-ochre,  and  whitening.  See  with 
what  a  ferocious  air  the  gentleman  who  personates  the  Mexi- 
can chief,  paces  up  and  down,  and  with  what  an  eye  of  calm 
dignity  the  principal  tragedian  gazes  on  the  crowd  below,  or 
converses  confidentially  with  the  harlequin  !  The  four  clowns, 
frho  are  engaged  in  a  mock  broadsword  combat,  may  be  all 
very  well  for  the  low-minded  holiday-makers  ;  but  these  are 
the  people  for  the  reflective-  portion  of  the  community.  They 
look  so  noble  in  those  Roman  dresses,  with  their  yellow  legs 
and  arms,  long  black  curly  heads,  bushy  eyebrows,  and  scowl 
expressive  of  assassination,  and  vengeance,  and  everything 
else  that  is  grand  and  solemn.  Then,  the  ladies — were  there 
ever  such  innocent  and  awful-looking  l3eings  :  as  they  walk  up 
and  down  the  platform  in  twos  and  threes,  with  their  arms 
round  each  other's  waists,  or  leaning  for  support  on  one  of 
those  majestic  men  !  Their  spangled  muslin  dresses  and 
blue  satin  shoes  and  sandals  (a  leetle  the  worse  for  wear)  are 
the  admiration  of  all  beholders  ;  and  the  playful  manner  in 
which  they  check  the  advances  of  the  clown,  is  perfectly  en- 
chanting. 


460 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


"  Just  a-going  to  begin !  Pray  come  for'erd,  come  for'- 
erd/'  exclaims  the  man  in  the  countryman's  dress,  for  the 
seventieth  time  ;  and  the  people  force  their  way  up  the  steps 
in  crowds.  The  band  suddenly  strikes  up,  the  harlequin  and 
columbine  set  the  example,  reels  are  formed  in  less  than  no 
time,  the  Roman  heroes  place  their  arms-a-kimbo^  and  dance 
with  con-^Jderable  agility  ;  and  the  leading  tragic  actress,  and 
the  gentleman  who  enacts  the  swell''  in  the  pantomime, 
foot  it  to  perfection.,  "All  in  to  begin,"  shouts  the  manager, 
when  no  more  people  can  be  induced  to  "  come  for'erd,"  and 
away  rush  the  leading  members  of  the  company  to  do  the 
dreadful  in  the  first  piece. 

A  change  01  performance  takes  place  every  day  during  the 
fair^,  but  the  story  of  the  tragedy  is  always  pretty  much  the 
same.  There  iz  a  rightful  heir,  who  loves  a  young  lady,  and 
is  beloved  by  her  ;  and  a  wrongful  heir,  who  loves  her  too, 
and  isn't  loved  by  her ;  and  the  wrongful  heir  gets  hold  of  the 
rightful  heir,  and  throws  him  into  a  dungeon,  just  to  kill  him 
off  when  convenient,  for  which  purpose  he  hires  a  couple  of 
assassins — a  good  one  and  a  bad  one — who,  the  moment  they 
are  left  alone,  get  up  a  little  murder  on  their  own  account,  the 
good  one  killing  the  bad  one,  and  the  bad  one  wounding  the 
good  onCo  Then  the  rightful  heir  is  discovered  in  prison, 
carefully  holding  a  long  chain  in  his  hands,  and  seated  de- 
spondingiy  in  a  large  arm-chair  ;  and  the  young  lady  comes  in 
to  two  bars  of  soft  music,  and  embraces  the  rightful  heir  ;  and 
then  the  wrongful  heir  comes  'n  to  two  bars  of  quick  music 
(technically  called  "a  hurry"),  and  goes  on  in  the  most 
shocking  manner,  throwing  the  young  lady  about  as  if  she 
was  nobody,  and  calling  the  rightful  heir  Ar-recreant — ar- 
wretch  ! "  in  a  very  loud  voice,  which  answers  the  double 
purpose  of  displaying  his  passion,  and  preventing  the  sound 
iDcing  deadened  by  the  sawdust.  The  interest  becomes  in- 
tense '  the  wrongful  heir  draws  his  sword,  and  rushes  on  the 
rightful  heir ;  a  biue  smoke  is  seen,  a  gong  is  heard,  and  a 
tall  white  figure  (who  has  been  all  this  time,  behind  the  arm 
chair,  covered  over  with  a  table-cloth)  slowly  rises  to  the  tune 
of  Oft  in  the  stilly  night."  This  is  no  other  than  the  ghost 
of  the  rightful  heir's  father,  who  was  killed  by  the  wrongful 
heir's  father,  at  sight  of  which  the  wrongful  heir  becomes 
apoplectic,  and  is  literally  struck  all  of  a  heap,"  the  stage 
not  being  large  enough  to  admit  of  his  falling  down  at  full 
length.    Then  the  good  assassin  staggers  in,  and  says  he  was 


GREENWICH  FAIR. 


461 


hired  in  conjunction  with  the  bad  assassin,  by  the  wrongful 
heir,  to  kill  the  rightful  heir  ;  and  he's  killed  a  good  many 
people  in  his  time,  but  he's  very  sorry  for  it,  and  won't  do  so 
any  more — a  promise  which  he  immediately  redeems,  by 
dying  off  hand  without  any  nonsense  about  it.  Then  the 
rightful  heir  throws  down  his  chain ;  and  then  two  men,  a 
sailor,  and  a  young  woman  (the  tenantry  of  the  rightful  heir) 
come  in,  and  the  ghost  makes  dumb  motions  to  them,  which 
they,  by  supernatural  interference  understand — for  no  one 
else  can ;  and  the  ghost  (who  can't  do  anything  without  blue 
fire)  blesses  the  rightful  heir  and  the  young  lady,  by  half 
suffocating  them  with  smoke  :  and  then  a  muffin-bell  rings, 
and  the  curtain  drops. 

The  exhibitions  next  in  popularity  to  these  itinerant 
theatres  are  the  travelling  menageries,  or,  to  speak  more  in- 
telligibly, the  Wild-beast  shows,"  where  a  military  band  in 
beef-eater's  costume,  with  leopard-skin  caps,  play  incessantly  : 
and  where  large  highly-colored  representations  of  tigers  tear- 
ing men's  heads  open,  and  a  lion  being  burnt  with  red-hot 
irons  to  induce  him  to  drop  his  victim,  are  hung  up  outside, 
by  way  of  attracting  visitors. 

The  principal  officer  at  these  places  is  generally  a  very  tall, 
hoarse  man,  in  a  scarlet  coat,  with  a  cane  in  his  hand,  with 
which  he  occasionally  raps  the  pictures  we  have  just  noticed 
by  way  of  illustrating  his  description — something  in  this  way. 

Here,  here,  here  ;  the  lion,  the  lion  (tap),  exactly  as  he  \v> 
represented  on  the  canvas  outside  (three  taps):  no  waiting, 
remember  :  no  deception.  The  fe-ro-cious  lion  (tap,  tap)  who 
bit  off  the  gentleman's  head  last  Cambervel  vos  a  twelve- 
month, and  has  killed  on  the  awerage  three  keepers  a-year 
ever  since  he  arrived  at  matoority.  No  extra  charge  on  this 
account  recollect  ;  the  price  of  admission  is  only  sixpence." 
This  address  never  fails  to  produce  a  considerable  sensation, 
and  sixpences  flow  into  the  treasury  with  wonderful  rapidity. 

The  dwarfs  are  also  objects  of  great  curiosity,  and  as  a 
dwarf,  a  giantess,  a  living  skeleton,  a  wild  Indian,  "  a  young 
lady  of  singular  beauty,  with  perfectly  white  hair  and  pink 
eyes,"  and  two  or  three  other  natural  curiosities,  are  usually 
exhibited  together  for  the  small  charge  of  a  penny,  they  at- 
tract very  numerous  audiences.  The  best  thing  about  a  dwarf 
is,  that  he  has  always  a  little  box,  about  t-wo  feet  six  inches 
high,  into  which,  by  long  practice,  he  can  just  manage  to  get, 
by  doubling  himself  up  like  a  boot-jack  :  this  box  is  painted 


462 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


outside  like  a  six-roomed  house,  and  as  the  crowd  see  him 
ring  a  bell,  or  lire  a  pistol  out  of  the  first-floor  window,  they 
verily  believe  that  it  is  his  ordinary  town  residence,  divided 
like  other  mansions  into  drawing-rooms,  dining-parlor,  and 
bedchambers.  Shut  up  in  this  case,  the  unfortunate  little 
object  is  brought  out  to  delight  the  throng  by  holding  a  face- 
tious dialogue  with  the  proprietor  :  in  the  course  of  which, 
the  dwarf  (who  is  always  particularly  drunk)  pledges  himself 
to  sing  a  comic  song  inside,  and  pays  various  compliments  to 
the  ladies,  which  induce  them  to  "  come  for'erd with  great 
alacrity.  As  a  giant  is  not  so  easily  moved,  a  pair  in  inde- 
scribables  of  most  capacious  dimensions,  and  a  huge  shoe,  are 
usually  brought  out,  into  which  two  or  three  stout  men  get  all 
at  once,  to  the  enthusiastic  delight  of  the  crowd,  who  are 
quite  satisfied  with  the  solemn  assurance  that  these  habili- 
ments form  part  of  the  giant's  everyday  costume. 

The  grandest  and  most  numerousl3^-frequented  booth  in 
the  whole  fair,  however,  is  The  Crown  and  Anchor" — a 
temporary  ball-room  —  we  forget  how  many  hundred  feet 
long,  the  price  of  admission  to  which  is  one  shilling.  Imme- 
diately on  your  right  hand  as  you  enter,  after  paying  your 
money,  is  a  refreshment  place,  at  which  cold  beef,  roast  and 
boiled,  French  rolls,  stout,  wine,  tongue,  ham,  even  fowls,  if 
w^e  recollect  right,  are  displayed  in  tempting  array.  There  is 
a  raised  orchestra,  and  the  place  is  boarded  all  the  way  down, 
in  patches,  just  wide  enough  for  a  country  dance. 

There  is  no  master  of  the  ceremonies  in  this  artificial 
Eden — all  is  primitive,  unreserved,  and  unstudied.  The  dust 
is  blinding,  the  heat  insupportable,  the  company  somewhat 
noisy,  and  in  the  highest  spirits  possible  :  the  ladies,  in  the 
height  of  their  innocent  animation,  dancing  in  the  gentlemen's 
hats,  and  the  gentlemen  promenading  "  the  gay  and  fes- 
tive scene  "  in  the  ladies'  bonnets,  or  with  the  more  expen- 
sive ornaments  of  false  noses,  and  low-crowned,  tinder-lDOx- 
looking  hats  :  playing  children's  drums,  and  accompanied  by 
ladies  on  the  penny  trumpet. 

The  noise  of  these  various  instruments,  the  orchestra,  the 
shouting,  the  "  scratchers,"  and  the  dancing,  is  perfectly  be- 
wildering.  The  dancing,  itself,  beggars  description — every 
figure  lasts  about  an  hour,  and  the  ladies  bounce  up  and 
down  the  middle,  with  a  degree  of  spirit  which  is  quite  inde- 
scribable. As  to  the  gentlemen,  they  stamp  their  feet  against 
the  ground  every  time  "  hands  four  round  "  begins,  go  down 


PRIVATE  THEATRES, 


463 


the  middle  and  up  again,  with  cigars  in  their  mouths,  and  silk 
handkerchiefs  in  their  hands,  and  whirl  their  partners  round, 
nothing  loth,  scrambling  and  falling,  and  embracing,  and 
knocking  up  against  the  other  couples,  until  they  are  fairly  - 
tired  out,  and  can  move  no  longer.  The  same  scene  is  re- 
peated again  and  again  (slightly  varied  by  an  occasional 
"  row  ")  until  a  late  hour  at  night  :  and  a  great  many  clerks 
and  'prentices  find  themselves  next  morning  with  aching 
heads,  empty  pockets,  damaged  hats,  and  a  very  imperfect 
recollection  of  how  it  was  they  did  not  get  home. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
private  theatres. 

"  Richard  the  Third. — Duke  of  Glo'ster,  2/.  ;  Earl 
OF  Richmond,  \L\  Duke  of  Buckingham,  155-.;  Catesby, 
1 2 J*.  ;  Tressel,  \os.  6d,  ;  Lord  Stanley,  5^-. ;  Lord  Mayor 
OF  London,  2s.  6d.'' 

Such  are  the  written  placards  wafered  up  in  the  gentle- 
men's dressing-room,  or  the  green-room  (where  there  is  any), 
at  a  private  theatre  ;  and  such  are  the  sums  extracted  from 
the  shop-till,  or  overcharged  in  the  office  expenditure,  by  the 
donkeys  who  are  prevailed  upon  to  pay  for  permission  to  ex- 
hibit their  lamentable  ignorance  and  boobyism  on  the  stage 
of  a  private  theatre.  This  they  do,  in  proportion  to  the  scope 
afforded  by  the  character  for  the  display  of  their  imbecility. 
For  instance,  the  Duke  of  Glo'ster  is  well  worth  two  pounds, 
because  he  has  it  all  to  himself ;  he  must  wear  a  real  sword, 
and  what  is  better  still,  he  must  draw  it,  several  times  in  the 
course  of  the  piece.  The  soliloquies  alone  are  well  worth 
fifteen  shillings then  there  is  the  stabbing  King  Henry — 
decidedly  cheap  at  the  three-and-sixpence,  that's  eighteen- 
and-sixpence  ;  bullying  the  coffin-bearers — say  eighteen-pence, 
though  its  worth  much  more — that's  a  pound.  Then  the  love 
scene  with  Lady  Ann,  and  the  bustle  of  the  fourth  act  can't 
be  dear  at  ten  shillings  more — that's  only  one  pound  ten, 
including  the  "  off  with  his  head  !  " — which  is  sure  to  bring 
down  the  applause,  and  it  is  very  easy  to  do — "  Orf  with  his 
ed  "  (very  quick  and  loud  j — then  slow  and  sneeringly) — '"Sa 


464 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


much  for  Bu-u-u-uckingham  1 "  Lay  the  emphasis  on  the 
"  uck ; "  get  yourself  gradually  into  a  corner,  and  work  with 
your  right  hand,  while  you're  saying  it,  as  if  you  were  feeling 
your  way,  and  it's  sure  to  do.  The  tent  scene  is  confessedly 
worth  half-a-sovereign,  and  so  you  have  the  fight  in,  gratis, 
and  everybody  knows  what  an  effect  may  be  produced  by  a 
good  combat.  One — two — three — four — over  ;  then,  one — 
two — three — four — under  ;  then  thrust ;  then  dodge  and  slide 
about ;  then  fall  down  on  one  knee;  then  fight  upon  it,  and 
then  get  up  again  and  stagger.  You  may  keep  on  doing  this, 
as  long  as  it  seems  to  take — say  ten  minutes — and  then  fall 
down  (backwards,  if  you  can  manage  it  without  hurting  your- 
self), and  die  game  :  nothing  like  it  for  producing  an  effect. 
They  always  do  it  at  Astley's  and  Sadlers'  Wells,  and  if  they 
don't  know  how  to  do  this  sort  of  thing,  who  in  the  world 
does  ?  A  small  child,  or  a  female  in  white,  increases  the 
interest  of  a  combat  materially — indeed,  we  are  not  aware 
that  a  regular  legitimate  terrific  broadsword  combat  could  be 
done  without ;  but  it  would  be  rather  difficult,  and  somewhat 
unusual,  to  introduce  this  effect  in  the  last  scene  of  Richard 
the  Third,  so  the  only  thing  to  be  done,  is,  just  to  make  the 
best  of  a  bad  bargain,  and  be  as  long  as  possible  righting  it 
out. 

The  principal  patrons  of  private  theatres  are  dirty  boys, 
low  copying-clerks  in  attorneys'  offices,  capacious-headed 
youths  from  city  counting-houses,  Jews  whose  business,  as 
lenders  of  fancy  dresses,  is  a  sure  passport  to  the  amateur 
stage,  shop-boys  who  now  and  then  mistake  their  masters' 
money  for  their  own  ;  and  a  choice  miscellany  of  idle  vag- 
abonds. The  proprietor  of  a  private  theatre  may  be  an 
ex-scene-painter,  a  low  coffee-house-keeper,  a  disappointed 
eighth-rate  actor,  a  retired  smuggler,  or  uncertificated  bank- 
rupt. The  theatre  itself  may  be  in  Catherine-street,  Strand, 
the  purlieus  of  the  city,  the  neighborhood  of  Gray's-inn-lane, 
or  the  vicinity  of  Sadlers'  Wells;  or  it  may,  perhaps,  form 
the  chief  nuisance  of  some  shabby  street,  on  the  Surrey  side 
of  Waterloo-bridge. 

The  lady  performers  pay  nothing  for  their  characters,  and 
it  is  needless  to  add,  are  usually  selected  from  one  class  of 
society ;  the  audiences  are  necessarily  of  much  the  same 
character  as  the  performers,  who  receive,  in  return  for  their 
contributions  to  the  management,  tickets  to  the  amount  of 
the  money  they  pay. 


PRIVATE  THEATRES. 


465 


All  the  minor  theatres  in  London,  especially  the  lowest, 
constitute  the  centre  of  a  little  stage-struck  neighborhood. 
Each  of  them  has  an  audience  exclusively  its  own ;  and  at 
any  you  will  see  dropping  into  the  pit  at  half-price,  or  swag- 
gering into  the  back  of  a  box,  if  the  price  of  admission  be  a 
reduced  one,  divers  boys  of  from  fifteen  to  twenty-one  years 
of  age,  who  throw  back  their  coat  and  turn  up  their  wrist- 
bands, after  the  portrait  of  Count  D'Orsay,  hum  tunes  and 
whistle  when  the  curtain  is  down,  by  way  of  persuading  the 
people  near  them,  that  they  are  not  at  all  anxious  to  have  it 
up  again,  and  speak  familiarly  of  the  inferior  performers  as 
Bill  Such-a-one,  and  Ned  so-and-so,  or  to  tell  each  other  how 
a  new  piece  called  The  Unknown  Bandit  of  the  Invisible 
Cavern,  is  in  rehearsal ;  how  Mister  Palmer  is  to  play  The 
Unknown  Bandit;  how  Charley  Scarton  is  to  take  the  part  of 
an  English  sailor,  and  fight  a  broadsword  combat  with  six 
unknown  bandits,  at  one  and  the  same  time  (one  theatrical 
sailor  is  always  equal  to  half  a  dozen  men  at  least)  ;  how 
Mister  Palmer  and  Charley  Scarton  are  to  go  through  a 
double  hornpipe  in  fetters  in  the  second  act ;  how  the  interior 
of  the  invisible  cavern  is  to  occupy  the  whole  extent  of  the 
stage  ;  and  other  town-surprising  theatrical  announcements. 
These  gentlemen  are  the  amateurs — the  Richards^  Shylocks^ 
Beverleys^  and  OthcUos — the  Young  Dorntons,  Rovers^  Captain 
Absolutes,  and  Charles  Surfaces — of  a  private  theatre. 

See  them  at  the  neighboring  public-house  or  theatrical 
coffee-shop !  They  are  the  kings  of  the  place,  supposing  no 
real  performers  to  be  present ;  and  roll  about,  hats  on  one 
side,  and  arms  a-kimbo,  as  if  they  had  actually  come  into 
possession  of  eighteen  shillings  a-week,  and  a  share  of  a  ticket 
night.  If  one  of  them  does  but  know  an  Astley's  supernu- 
merary he  is  a  happy  fellow.  The  mingled  air  of  envy  and 
admiration  with  which  his  companions  will  regard  him,  as  he 
converses  familiarly  with  some  mouldy-looking  man  in  a  fancy 
neckerchief,  whose  partially  corked  eyebrows,  and  half-rouged 
face,  testify  to  the  fact  of  his  having  just  left  the  stage  or  the 
circle,  .sufficiently  shows  in  what  high  admiration  these  public 
characters  are  held. 

With  the  double  view  of  guarding  against  the  discovery 
of  friends  or  employers,  and  enhancing  the  interest  of  an  as- 
sumed character,  by  attaching  a  high-sounding  name  to  its 
representative,  these  geniuses  assume  fictitious  names,  which 
are  not  the  least  amusing  part  of  the  play-bill  of  a  private 

30 


466 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


theatre.  Belville,  Melville,  Treville,  Berkeley,  Randolpli, 
Byron,  St.  Clair,  and  so  forth,  are  among  the  humblest ;  and 
the  less  imposing  titles  of  Jenkins,  Walker,  Thomson,  Barker, 
Solomons,  &c.,-  are  completely  laid  aside.  There  is  some- 
thing imposing  in  this,  and  it  is  an  excellent  apology  for  shab- 
biness  into  the  bargain.  A  shrunken,  faded  coat,  a  decayed 
hat,  a  patched  and  soiled  pair  of  trousers — nay,  even  a  very 
(Arty  shirt  (and  none  of  these  appearances  are  very  uncommon 
among  the  members  of  the  corps  dramatiqiie)^  maybe  worn  for 
the  purpose  of  disguise,  and  to  prevent  the  remotest  chance 
of  recognition.  Then  it  prevents  any  troublesome  inquiries 
or  explanations  about  employment  and  pursuits ;  everybody 
is  a  gentleman  at  large,  for  the  occasion,  and  there  are  none 
of  those  unpleasant  and  unnecessary  distinctions  to  which 
even  genius  must  occasionally  succumb  elsewhere.  As  to  the 
ladies  (God  bless  them),  they  are  quite  above  any  formal  ab- 
surdities ;  the  mere  circumstance  of  your  being  behind  the 
scenes  is  a  sufficient  introduction  to  their  society — for  of 
course  they  know  that  none  but  strictly  respectable^  persons 
would  be  admitted  into  that  close  fellowship  v/ith  them,  which 
acting  engenders.  They  place  implicit  reliance  on  the  man- 
ager, no  doubt  ;  and  as  to  the  manager,  he  is  all  affability 
when  he  knows  you  well, — or,  in  other  words,  when  he  has 
pocketed  your  money  once,  and  entertains  confident  hopes  of 
doino"  so  asrain. 

o  o 

A  quarter  before  eight — there  will  be  a  full  house  to-night 
— six  parties  in  the  boxes,  already  ;  four  little  boys  and  a 
v/oman  in  the  pit ;  and  two  fiddles  and  a  flute  in  the  orches- 
tra, who  have  got  through  five  overtures  since  seven  o'clock 
(the  hour  fixed  for  the  commencement  of  the  performances), 
and  have  just  begun  the  sixth.  There  will  be  plenty  of  it^ 
though,  when  it  does  begin,  for  there  is  enough  in  the  bill  to 
last  six  hours  at  least. 

That  gentleman  in  the  white  hat  and  checked  shirt,  brown 
coat  and  brass  buttons,  lounging  behind  the  stage-box  on  the 
O.  P.  side,  is  Mr.  Horatio  St.  Julien,  alias  Jem  Larkins.  His 
line  is  genteel  comedy — -his  father's,  coal  and  potato.  He 
does  PsXix^^  Highflier  in  the  last  piece,  and  very  well  he'll  dc) 
it — at  the  price.  The  patrty  of  gentlemen  in  the  opposite 
box,  to  whom  he  has  just  nodded,  are  friends  and  supporters 
of  Mr.  Beverley  (otherwise  Loggins),  the  Macbeth  of  the  night. 
You  observe  their  attempts  to  appear  easy  and  gentlemanly, 
each  member  of  the  party,  with  his  feet  cocked  upon  the 


PRIVATE  THEATRES. 


46> 


cushion  in  front  of  the  b9x  !  They  let  them  do  these  things 
here,  upon  the  same  humane  principle  which  permits  poor 
people's  children  to  knock  double  knocks  at  the  door  of  an 
empty  house — because  they  can't  do  it  anywhere  else.  The 
two  stout  men  in  the  centre  box,  with  an  opera-glass  ostenta- 
tiously placed  before  them,  are  friends  of  the  proprietor — opu- 
lent country  managers,  as  he  confidentially  niforms  every  in- 
dividual among  the  crew  behind  the  curtain — opulent  country 
managers  looking  out  for  recruits  ;  a  representation  whiai 
Mr,  Nathan,  the  dresser,  who  is  in  the  manager's  interest,  and 
has  just  arrived  with  the  costumes,  offers  to  confirm  upon 
oath  if  required — corroborative  evidence,  however,  is  quite 
unnecessary,  for  the  gulls  believe  it  at  once. 

The  stout  Jewess  who  has  just  entered,  is  the  mother  of 
the  pale  bony  little  girl,  with  the  necklace  of  blue  glass  beads, 
sitting  by  her ;  she  is  being  brought  up  to  "  the  profession." 
Pantomime  is  to  be  her  line,  and  she  is  coming  out  to-night, 
in  a  hornpipe  after  the  tragedy.  The  short  thin  man  beside 
Mr.  St.  Julien,  whose  white  face  is  so  deeply  seared  with  the 
small-pox,  and  whose  dirty  shirt-front  is  inlaid  with  open- 
work, and  embossed  with  coral  studs  like  ladybirds,  is  the 
low  comedian  and  comic  singer  of  the  establishment.  The 
remainder  of  the  audience — a  tolerably  numerous  one  by  this 
time — are  a  motley  group  of  dupes  and  blackguards. 

The  foot-lights  have  just  made  their  appearance  :  the 
wicks  of  the  six  little  oil  lamps  round  the  only  tier  of  boxes, 
are  being  turned  up,  and  the  additional  light  thus  afforded 
serves  to  show  the  presence  of  dirt,  and  absence  of  paint, 
which  forms  a  prominent  feature  in  the  audience  part  of  the 
house.  As  these  preparations,  however,  announce  the  speedy 
commencement  of  the  play,  let  us  take  a  peep  "behind,"  pre- 
vious to  the  ringing-up. 

The  little  narrow  passages  beneath  the  stage  are  neither 
especially  clean  nor  too  brilliantly  lighted  ;  and  the  absence 
of  any  flooring,  together  with  the  damp  mildewy  smell  which 
pen^ades  the  place,  does  not  conduce  any  great  degree  to 
their  comfortable  appearance.  Don't  fall  over  this  plate  bas- 
ket— it's  one  of  the  "  properties  " — the  caldron  for  the  witches' 
cave ;  and  the  three  uncouth-looking  figures,  with  broken 
clothes-props  in  their  hands,  who  are  drinking  gin-and-water 
out  of  a  pint  pot,  are  the  weird  sisters.  This  miserable  room, 
lighted  by  candles  in  scones  placed  at  lengthened  intervals 
round  the  wall,  in  the  dressing-room,  common  to  the  gentle- 


468 


SKE TCHES  BY  BOZ. 


men  performers,  and  the  square  hole  in  the  ceiling  is  the  trap- 
door of  the  stage  above.  You  will  observe  that  the  ceiling  is 
ornamented  with  the  beams  that  support  the  boards,  and 
tastefully  hung  with  cobwebs. 

The  characters  in  the  tragedy  are  all  dressed  and  their 
own  clothes  are  scattered  in  hurried  confusion  over  the  wooden 
dresser  which  surrounds  the  room.  That  snuff-shop-looking 
figure,  in  front  of  the  glass,  is  Banquo  :  and  the  young  lady 
with  the  liberal  display  of  legs,  who  is  kindly  painting  his  face 
with  a  hare's  foot,  is  dressed  for  Fleance,  The  large  woman, 
who  is  consulting  the  stage  directions  in  Cumberland's  edi- 
tion of  Macbeth^  is  the  Lady  Macbeth  of  the  night ;  she  is  al- 
w^ays  selected  to  play  the  part,  because  she  is  tall  and  stout, 
and  looks  a  little  like  Mrs.  Siddons — at  a  considerable  distance. 
That  stupid-looking  milksop,  with  light  hair  and  bow  legs — 
a  kind  of  man  whom  you  can  warrant  town-made — is  fresh 
Caught ;  he  plays  Malcolm  to-night,  just  to  accustom  himself 
to  an  audience.  He  will  get  on  better  by  degrees  ;  he  will 
play  Othello  in  a  month,  and  in  a  month  more,  will  very 
probably  be  apprehended  on  a  charge  of  embezzlement.  The 
black-eyed  female  with  whom  he  is  talking  so  earnestly,  is 
dressed  for  the  "  gentlewoman."  It  is  her  first  appearance, 
too— in  that  character.  The  boy  of  fourteen  who  is  having 
his  eyebrows  smeared  with  soap  and  whitening,  is  Duncan, 
King  of  Scotland ;  and  the  two  dirty  men  with  the  corked 
countenances,  in  very  old  green  tunics,  and  dirty  drab  boots, 
are  the  "  army." 

"  Look  sharp  below  there,  gents,"  exclaims  the  dresser,  a 
red-headed  and  red-whiskered  Jew,  calling  through  the  trap, 
"  they're  a-going  to  ring  up.  The  flute  says  he'll  be  blowed 
if  he  plays  any  more,  and  they're  getting  precious  noisy  in 
front."  A  general  rush  immediately  takes  place  to  the  half- 
dozen  little  steep  steps  leading  to  the  stage,  and  the  hetero- 
geneous group  are  soon  assembled  at  the  side  scenes,  in 
breathless  anxiety  and  motley  confusion. 

Now,"  cries  the  manager,  consulting  the  written  list 
which  hangs  behind  the  first  P.  S.  wing,  Scene  i,  open 
country — lamps  down — thunder  and  lightning — all  ready. 
White?"  [This  is  addressed  to  one  of  the  army.]  ''All 
ready." — "  Very  well.  Scene  2,  front  chamber.  Is  the  front 
chamber  down  " — "  Yes." — "  Very  well." — "  Jones  "  [to  the 
other  army  who  is  up  in  the  flies].  "  Hallo  1  " — "  Wind  up 
the  open  country  when  we  ring  up." — "  I'll  take  care." — ■ 


VAUXHALL-GARDENS  BY  DA  Y. 


469 


Scene  3,  back  perspective  with  practical  bridge.  Bridge 
ready,  White?    Got  the  tressels  there  ?  " — All  right." 

"  Very  well.  Clear  the  stage/'  cries  the  manager,  hastily 
packing  every  member  of  the  company  into  the  little  space 
there  is  between  the  wings  and  the  wall,  and  one  wing  and 
'another.  Places,  places.  Now  then.  Witches — Duncan — 
Malcolm — bleeding  officer — where's  the  bleeding  officer?  " — ■ 

Here  !  "  replies  the  officer,  who  has  been  rose-pinking  for 
the  character.  Get  ready,  then;  now,  White,  ring  the 
second-music-bell."  The  actors  who  are  to  be  discovered,  are 
hastily  arranged,  and  the  actors  who  are  not  to  be  discovered 
place  themselves,  in  their  anxiety  to  peep  at  the  house,  just 
where  the  audience  can  see  them.  The  bell  rings,  and  the 
orchestra,  in  acknowledgment  of  the  call,  play  three  distinct 
chords.  The  bell  rings — the  tragedy  (!)  opens — and  our  de^ 
scription  closes. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

VAUXHALL-GARDENS    BY  DAY. 

There  was  a  time  when  if  a  man  ventured  to  wonder  how 
Vauxhall-gardens  would  look  by  day,  he  was  hailed  with  a 
shout  of  derision  at  the  absurdity  of  the  idea.  Vauxhall  by 
daylight !  A  porter-pot  without  porter,  the  House  of  Com- 
mons without  the  Speaker,  a  gas-lamp  without  the  gas — pooh, 
nonsense,  the  thing  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  It  was 
rumored,  too,  in  those  times,  that  Vauxhall-gardens  by  day, 
were  the  scene  of  secret  and  hidden  experiments  ;  that  there, 
carvers  were  exercised  in  the  mystic  art  of  cutting  a  moderate- 
sized  ham  into  slices  thin  enough  to  pave  the  whole  of  the 
grounds  ;  that  beneath  the  shade  of  the  tall  trees,  studious 
men  were  constantly  engaged  in  chemical  experiments,  with 
the  view  of  discovering  how  much  water  a  bowl  of  negus 
could  possibly  bear  ;  and  that  in  some  retired  nooks,  appro- 
priated to  the  study  of  ornithology,  other  sage  and  learned 
men  w^ere,  by  a  process  known  only  to  themselves,  incessantly 
employed  in  reducing  fowls  to  a  mere  combination  of  skin 
and  bone. 

V ague  rumors  of  this  kind,  together  with  many  others  of 


470 


SKETCrrES  BY  BOZ. 


a  similar  nature,  cast  over  Vauxhall-gardens  an  air  of  deep 
mystery  ;  and  as  there  is  a  great  deal  in  the  mysterious,  there 
is  no  doubt  that  to  a  good  many  people,  at  all  events,  the 
pleasure  they  afforded  was  not  a  little  enhanced  by  this  very 
circumstance. 

Of  this  class  of  people  we  confess  to  having  made  onCc 
We  loved  to  wander  among  these  illuminated  groves,  thinking 
of  the  patient  and  laborious  researches  which  had  been  carried 
on  there  during  the  day,  and  witnessing  their  results  in  the 
suppers  which  were  served  up  beneath  the  light  of  lamps  and 
to  the  sound  of  music  at  night.  The  temples  and  saloons 
and  cosmoramas  and  fountains  glittered  and  sparkled  before 
our  eyes  ;  the  beauty  of  the  lady  singers  and  the  elegant  de- 
portment of  the  gentlemen,  captivated  our  hearts ;  a  few 
hundred  thousand  of  additional  lamps  dazzled  our  senses  ;  a 
bowl  or  two  of  punch  bewildered  our  brains  ;  and  we  were 
happy. 

In  an  evil  hour,  the  proprietors  of  Vauxhall-gardens  took 
to  opening  them  by  day.  VVe  regretted  this,  as  rudely  and 
harshly  disturbing  that  veil  of  mystery  which  had  hung  about 
the  property  for  many  years,  and  which  none  but  the  noon- 
day sun,  and  the  late  Mr.  Simpson,  had  ever  penetrated.  We 
shrunk  from  going ;  at  this  moment  we  scarcely  know  why. 
Perhaps  a  morbid  consciousness  of  approaching  disappoint- 
ment— perhaps  a  fatal  presentiment — perhaps  the  weather  ; 
whatever  it  was,  we  did  fiot  go  until  the  second  or  third 
announcement  of  a  race  between  two  balloons  tempted  us, 
and  we  went. 

We  paid  our  shilling  at  the  gate,  and  then  we  saw  for  the 
first  time,  that  the  entrance,  if  there  had  been  any  magic 
about  it  at  all,  was  now  decidedly  disenchanted,  being,  in  fact, 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  combination  of  very  roughly- 
painted  boards  and  sawdust.  We  glanced  at  the  orchestra 
and  supper-room  as  we  hurried  past — we  just  recognized 
them,  and  that  was  all.  We  bent  our  steps  to  the  firework- 
ground  ;  there,  at  least,  we  should  not  be  disappointed.  We 
reached  it,  and  stood  rooted  to  the  spot  with  mortification 
and  astonishment.  That  the  Moorish  tower — that  wooden 
shed  with  a  door  in  the  centre,  and  daubs  of  crimson  and 
yellow  all  round,  like  a  gigantic  watch-case  !  That  the  place 
where  night  after  night  we  had  beheld  the  undaunted  Mr. 
Blackmore  make  his  terrific  ascent,  surrounded  by  ^ames  of 
fire,  and  peals  of  artillery,  and  where  the  white  garments 


VA  UXHALL-GARDENS  BY  DAY. 


oi  Madame  Somebody  (we  forget  even  her  name  now),  who 
nobly  devoted  her  life  to  the  manufacture  of  fireworks,  had  so 
often  been  seen  fluttering  in  the  wind,  as  she  called  up  a  red, 
blue,  or  party-colored  light  to  illumine  her  temple  !  That  the 
— but  at  this  moment  the  bell  rang  \  the  people  scampered 
away,  pell-mell,  to  the  spot  from  whence  the  sound  proceeded  ; 
and  we,  from  the  mere  force  of  habit,  found  ourself  running 
among  the  first,  as  if  for  very  life. 

It  was  for  the  concert  in  the  orchestra.  A  small  party  of 
dismal  men  in  cocked  hats  were  executing  "  the  overture  to 
Tancredi,  and  a  numerous  assemblage  of  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, with  their  families,  had  rushed  from  their  half-emptied 
stout  mugs  in  the  supper  boxes,  and  crowded  to  the  spot. 
Intense  was  the  low  murmur  of  admiration  when  a  partic- 
ularly small  gentleman,  in  a  dress  coat,  led  on  a  particularly 
tall  lady  in  a  blue  sarcenet  pelisse  and  bonnet  of  the  same, 
ornamented  with  large  white  feathers,  and  forthwith  com- 
menced a  plaintive  duet. 

We  knew  the  small  gentleman  well  ]  we  had  seen  a  litho- 
graphed semblance  of  him,  on  many  a  piece  of  music,  with  his 
mouth  wide  open  as  if  in  the  act  of  singing ;  a  wine-glass  in 
his  hand ;  and  a  table  with  two  decanters  and  four  pine-apples 
on  it  in  the  background.  The  tali  lady,  too,  we  had  gazed 
on,  lost  in  raptures  of  admiration,  many  and  many  a  time — 
how  different  people  do  look  by  daylight,  and  without  punch, 
to  be  sure  !  It  was  a  beautiful  duet :  first  the  small  gentle- 
man asked  a  question,  and  then  the  tall  lady  answered  it ; 
then  the  small  gentleman  and  the  tall  lady  sang  together  most 
melodiously ;  then  the  small  gentleman  went  through  a  little 
piece  of  vehemence  by  himself,  and  got  very  tenor  indeed,  in 
the  excitement  of  his  feelings,  to  which  the  tall  lady  responded 
in  a  similar  manner  ;  then  the  small  gentleman  had  a^shake 
or  two,  after  which  the  tall  lady  had  the  same,  and  then  they 
both  merged  imperceptibly  into  the  original  air :  and  the  band 
wound  themselves  up  to  a  pitch  of  fury,  and  the  small  gentle- 
man handed  the  tall  lady  out,  and  the  applause  was  rapturous. 

The  comic  singer,  however,  was  the  especial  favorite  ;  we 
really  thought  that  a  gentleman  with  his  dinner  in  a  pocket- 
handkerchief,  who  stood  near  us,  would  have  fainted  with  ex- 
cess of  joy.  A  marvellously  facetious  gentleman  that  comic 
singer  is  ;  his  distinguishing  characteristics  are,  a  wig  ap- 
proaching to  the  flaxen,  and  an  aged  countenance,  and  he 
bears  the  name  of  one  of  the  English  counties,  if  we  recollect 


472 


SKE TCIIES  BY  BOZ. 


right.  He  sang  a  very  good  song  about  the  seven  ages,  the 
first  half-hour  of  which  afforded  the  assembly  the  purest  de- 
light ;  of  the  rest  we  can  make  no  report,  as  we  did  not  stay 
to  hear  any  more. 

We  walked  about,  and  met  with  a  disappointment  at  every 
turn  ;  our  favorite  views  were  mere  patches  of  paint ;  the 
fountain  that  had  sparkled  so  showily  by  lamp-light,  presented 
very  much  the  appearance  of  a  water-pipe  that  had  burst ;  all 
the  ornaments  were  dingy,  and  all  the  walks  gloomy.  There 
was  a  spectral  attempt  at  rope-dancing  in  the  little  open  thea- 
tre. The  sun  shone  upon  the  spangled  dresses  of  the  per- 
formers, and  their  evolutions  were  about  as  inspiriting  and 
appropriate  as  a  country-dance  in  a  family  vault.  So  we  re- 
traced our  steps  to  the  firework-ground,  and  mingled  with  the 
little  crowd  of  people  who  were  contemplating  Mr.  Green. 

Some  half-dozen  men  were  restraining  the  impetuosity  of 
one  of  the  balloons,  which  was  completely  filled,  and  had  the 
car  already  attached  ;  and  as  rumors  had  gone  abroad  that  a 
Lord  v/as  "going  up,"  the  crowd  was  more  than  usually 
anxious  and  talkative.  There  was  one  little  man  in  faded 
black,  with  a  dirty  face  and  a  rusty  black  neckerchief  with  a 
red  border,  tied  in  a  narrow  wisp  round  his  neck,  who  entered 
into  conversation  with  everybody,  and  had  something  to  say 
upon  every  remark  that  was  made  within  his  hearing.  He 
was  standing  with  his  arms  folded,  staring  up  at  the  balloon, 
and  every  now  and  then  vented  his  feelings  of  reverence  for 
the  aeronaut,  by  saying,  as  he  looked  round  to  catch  some- 
body's eye,  "  He's  a  rum  'un,  is  Green  ;  think  o'  this  here  be- 
ing up'ards  of  his  two  hundredth  ascent  ;  ecod  the  man  as  is 
ekal  to  Green  never  had  the  toothache  yet,  nor  won't  have 
within  this  hundred  year,  and  that's  all  about  it.  When  you 
meets  with  real  talent,  and  native,  too,  encourage  it,  that's 
what  I  say  and  when  he  had  delivered  himself  to  this  ef- 
fect, he  would  fold  his  arms  with  more  determination  than 
ever,  and  stare  at  the  balloon  with  a  sort  of  admiring  defiance 
of  any  other  man  alive,  beyond  himself  and  Green,  that  im- 
pressed the  crowd  with  the  opinion  that  he  was  an  oracle. 

"Ah,  you're  very  right,  sir,"  said  another  gentleman,  with 
his  wife,  and  children,  and  mother,  and  wife's  sister,  and  a 
host  of  female  friends,  in  all  the  gentility  of  white  pocket- 
handkerchiefs,  frills,  and  spencers,  "  Mr.  Green  is  a  steadjf 
hand,  sir,  and  there's  no  fear  about  him." 


VAUXHALL-GARDENS  BY  DAY. 


473 


"  Fear ! said  the  little  man  :  "  isn't  i^.  a  lovely  thing  io 
see  him  and  his  wife  a  going  up  in  one  balloon,  and  his  own 
son  and  his  wife  a  jostling  up  against  them  in  another,  and  all 
of  them  going  twenty  or  thirty  mile  in  three  hours  or  so,  and 
then  coming  back  in  pochayses  ?  I  don't  know  where  this 
here  science  is  to  stop,  mind  you  ;  that's  what  bothers  me." 

Here  there  was  a  considerable  talking  among  the  females 
in  the  spencers. 

"  What's  the  ladies  a  laughing  at,  sir?  "  inquired  the  little 
man,  condescendingly. 

"  It's  only  my  sister  Mary,"  said  one  of  the  girls,  as  says 
she  hopes  his  lordship  won't  be  frightened  when  he's  in  the 
car,  and  want  to  come  out  again." 

Make  yourself  easy  about  that  there,  my  dear,"  replied 
the  little  man.  "  If  he  was  so  much  as  to  move  a  inch  with- 
out leave.  Green  would  jist  fetch  him  a  crack  over  the  head 
with  the  telescope,  as  would  send  him  into  the  bottom  of  the 
basket  in  no  time,  and  stun  him  till  they  come  down  again." 

"  Would  he,  though  ?  "  inquired  the  other  man. 

"  Yes,  would  he,"  replied  the  little  one,  *'and  think  nothing 
of  it,  neither,  if  he  was  the  king  himself.  Green's  presence  of 
mind  is  wonderful." 

Just  at  that  moment  all  eyes  were  directed  to  the  prepara- 
tions which  were  being  made  for  starting.  The  car  was  at- 
tached to  the  second  balloon,  the  two  were  brought  pretty 
close  together,  and  a  military  band  commenced  playing,  with 
a  zeal  and  fervor  which  would  render  the  most  timid  man  in 
existence  but  too  happy  to  accept  any  means  of  quitting  that 
particular  spot  of  earth  on  which  they  were  stationed.  Then 
Mr.  Green,  sen.,  and  his  noble  companion  entered  one  car, 
and  Mr.  Green,  jun.,  and  his  companion  the  other ;  and  then 
the  balloons  went  up,  and  the  aerial  travellers  stood  up,  and 
the  crowd  outside  roared  with  delight,  and  the  two  gentlemen 
who  had  never  ascended  before,  tried  to  wave  their  flags,  as  if 
they  were  not  nervous,  but  held  on  very  fast  all  the  while  \ 
and  the  galloons  were  wafted  gently  aw^ay,  our  little  friend 
solemnly  protesting,  long  after  they  were  reduced  to  mere 
specks  in  the  air,  that  he  could  still  distinguish  the  white  hat 
of  Mr.  Green.  The  gardens  disgorged  their  multitudes,  boys 
ran  up  and  down  screaming  "bal-loon  ;  "  and  in  all  the  crowded 
thoroughfares  people  rushed  out  of  their  shops  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road,  and  having  stared  up  in  the  air  at  two  little 


474 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


black  objects  till  they  almost  dislocated  their  necks,  walked 
slowly  in  again,  perfectly  satisfied. 

The  next  day  there  was  a  grand  account  of  the  ascent  in 
the  morning  papers,  and  the  public  were  informed  how  it  was 
the  finest  day  but  four  in  Mr.  Green's  remembrance  ;  how 
they  retained  sight  of  the  earth  till  they  lost  it  behind  the 
clouds  ]  and  how  the  reflection  of  the  balloon  on  the  undula- 
ting  masses  of  vapor  was  gorgeously  picturesque ;  together  with 
a  little  science  about  the  refraction  of  the  sun's  rays,  and 
some  mysterious  hints  respecting  atmospheric  heat  and  eddy- 
ing currents  o£  air. 

There  was  also  an  interesting  account  how  a  man  in  a  boat 
was  distinctly  heard  by  Mr.  Green,  jun.,  to  exclaim,  My 
eye  ! "  which  Mr.  Green,  jun.,  attributed  to  his  voice  rising  to 
the  balloon,  and  the  sound  being  thrown  back  from  its  surface 
into  the  car ;  and  the  whole  concluded  with  a  slight  allusion 
to  another  ascent  next  Wednesday,  all  of  which  was  very  in- 
structive and  very  amusing,  as  our  readers  will  see  if  they  look 
to  the  papers.  If  we  have  forgotten  to  mention  the  date,  they 
have  only  to  w^ait  till  next  summer,  and  take  the  account  of 
the  first  ascent,  and  it  will  answer  the  purpose  equally  well. 


CHAPTER  XV, 

EARLY  COACHES. 

We  have  often  wondered  how  many  months'  incessant 
travelling  in  a  post-chaise  it  would  take  to  kill  a  man  ;  and 
wondering  by  analogy,  we  should  very  much  like  to  know  how 
many  months  of  travelling  in  a  succession  of  early  coaches,  an 
unfortunate  mortal  could  endure.  Breaking  a  man  alive  upon 
the  wheel,  would  be  nothing  to  breaking  his  rest,  his  peace, 
his  heart — everything  but  his  fast — upon  four  ;  and  the  pun- 
ishment of  Ixion  (the  only  practical  person,  by  the  bye,  who 
has  discovered  the  secret  of  perpetual  motion)  would  sink  into 
utter  insignificance  before  the  one  we  have  suggested.  If  we 
had  been  a  powerful  churchman  in  those  good  times  when 
blood  was  shed  as  freely  as  water,  and  men  were  mowed  down 
like  grass  in  the  sacred  cause  of  religion,  we  would  have  lain 


EARLY  COACHES, 


47S 


by  very  quietly  till  we  got  hold  of  some  especially  obstinate 
miscreant,  who  positively  refused  to  be  converted  to  our  faith, 
and  then  we  would  have  booked  him  for  an  inside  place  in  a 
small  coach,  which  travelled  day  and  night :  and  securing  the 
remainder  of  the  places  for  stout  men  with  a  slight  tendency 
to  coughing  and  spitting,  we  would  have  started  him  forth  on 
his  last  travels  :  leaving  him  mercilessly  to  all  the  tortures 
which  the  waiters,  landlords,  coachmen,  guards,  boots,  cham- 
bermaids, and  other  familiars  on  his  line  of  road,  might  think 
proper  to  inflict. 

Who  has  not  experienced  the  miseries  inevitably  conse- 
quent upon  a  summons  to  undertake  a  hasty  journey  ?  You 
receive  an  intimation  from  your  place  of  business — wherever 
that  may  be,  or  whatever  you  may  be  —  that  it  will  be 
necessary  to  leave  town  without  delay.  You  and  your  family 
are  forthwith  thrown  into  a  state  of  tremendous  excitement ; 
an  express  is  immediately  despatched  to  the  washerwoman's; 
everybody  is  in  a  bustle  ;  and  you,  yourself,  with  a  feeling  of 
dignity  which  you  cannot  altogether  conceal,  sally  forth  to  the 
booking-office  to  secure  your  place.  Here  a  painful  con- 
sciousness of  your  own  unimportance  first  rushes  on  your 
mind — the  people  are  as  cool  and  collected  as  if  nobody  were 
going  out  of  town,  or  as  if  a  journey  of  a  hundred  odd  miles 
were  a  mere  nothing.  You  enter  a  mouldy-looking  room, 
ornamented  with  large  posting-bills ;  the  greater  part  of  the 
place  enclosed  behind  a  huge  lumbering  rough  counter,  and 
fitted  up  with  recesses  that  look  like  the  dens  of  the  smaller 
animals  in  a  travelling  menagerie,  without  the  bars.  Some 
half-dozen  people  are  ^'booking  "  brown-paper  parcels,  which 
one  of  the  clerks  flings  into  the  aforesaid  recesses  with  an  air 
of  recklessness  which  you,  remembering  the  new  carpet-bag 
you  bought  in  the  morning,  feel  considerably  annoyed  at ; 
porters,  looking  like  so  many  Atlases,  keep  rushing. in  and  out, 
with  large  packages  on  their  shoulders ;  and  while  you  are 
waiting  to  make  the  necessary  inquiries,  you  wonder  what  on 
earth  the  booking-office  clerks  can  have  been  before  they  were 
booking-office  clerks  ;  one  of  them  with  his  pen  behind  his 
ear,  and  his  hands  behind  him,  is  standing  in  front  of  the  fire, 
like  a  full-length  portrait  of  Napoleon  ;  the  other  with  his  hat 
half  off  his  head,  enters  the  passengers'  names  in  the  books 
with  a  coolness  which  is  inexpressibly  provoking  ;  and  the 
villain  whistles — actually  whistles — while  a  man  asks  him 
what  the  fare  is  outside,  all  the  way  to  Holyhead ! — in  frosty 


476 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


weather,  too  !  They  are  clearly  an  isolated  race,  evidently 
possessing  no  sympathies  or  feelings  in  common  with  the  rest 
of  mankind.  Your  turn  comes  at  last,  and  having  paid  the 
fare,  you  tremblingly  inquire — "  What  time  will  it  be  necessary 
for  me  to  be  here  in  the  morning  ?  " — "  Six  o'clock,"  replies 
the  v/histler,  carelessly  pitching  the  sovereign  you  have  just 
parted  with,  into  a  vv^ooden  bowl  on  the  desk.  "  Rather  be- 
fore than  arter,"  adds  the  man  with  the  semi-roasted  unmen- 
tionables, with  just  as  much  ease  and  complacency  as  if  the 
whole  world  got  out  of  bed  at  five.  You  turn  into  the  street, 
ruminating  as  you  bend  your  steps  homewards  on  the  extent 
to  which  men  become  hardened  in  cruelty,  by  custom. 

If  there  be  one  thing  in  existence  more  miserable  than 
another,  it  most  unquestionably  is  the  being  compelled  to  rise 
by  candle-light.  If  you  ever  doubted  the  fact,  you  are  pain- 
fully convinced  of  your  error,  on  the  morning  of  your  de- 
parture. You  left  strict  orders,  overnight,  to  be  called  at 
half-past  four,  and  you  have  done  nothing  all  night  but  doze 
for  five  minutes  at  a  time,  and  start  up  suddenly  from  a 
terrific  dream  of  a  large  church-clock  with  the  small  hand 
running  round,  with  astonishing  rapidity,  to  every  figure  on 
the  dial-plate.  At  last,  completely  exhausted,  you  fall 
gradually  into  a  refreshing  sleep — your  thoughts  grow  con- 
fused— the  stage-coaches,  which  have  been  "  going-off  "  be- 
fore your,  eyes  all  night,  become  less  and  less  distinct,  until 
they  go  off  altogether  ;  one  moment  you  are  driving  with  all 
the  skill  and  smartness  of  an  experienced  whip — the  next 
you  are  exhibiting  a  la  Ducrow,  on  the  off-leader ;  anon  you 
are  closely  muflled  up,  inside,  and  have  just  recognized  in 
the  person  of  the  guard  an  old  schoolfellow,  whose  funeral, 
even  in  your  dream,  you  remember  to  have  attended  eighteen 
years  ago.  At  last  you  fall  into  a  state  of  complete  oblivion, 
from  which  you  are  aroused,  as  if  into  a  new  state  of  existence, 
by  a  singular  illusion.  You  are  apprenticed  to  a  trunk-maker ; 
how,  or  why,  or  when,  or  wherefore,  you  don't  take  the  trouble 
to  inquire  ;  but  there  you  are,  pasting  the  lining  in  the  lid  of 
a  portmanteau.  Confound  that  other  apprentice  in  the  back 
shop,  how  he  is  hammering! — rap,  rap,  rap — wl^t  an  indus- 
trious fellow  he  must  be  !  you  have  heard  him  at  work  foi 
half  an  hour  past,  and  he  has  been  hammering  incessantly  the 
whole  time.  Rap,  rap,  rap,  again — he's  talking  now — what's 
that  he  said  ?  Five  o'clock  !  You  make  a  violent  exertion, 
and  start  up  in  bed.    The  vision  is  at  once  dispelled ;  tba 


EARLY  COACHES, 


477 


trunk-maker's  shop  is  your  own  bed-room,  and  the  other  ap- 
prentice your  shivering  servant,  who  has  been  vainly  en- 
deavoring to  wake  you  for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour,  at  the 
imminent  risk  of  breaking  either  his  own  knuckles  or  the 
k)anels  of  the  door. 

You  proceed  to  dress  yourself,  with  all  possible  despatch. 
The  flaring  flat  candle  with  the  long  snuff,  gives  light  enough 
to  show  that  the  things  you  want,  are  not  where  they  ought  to 
be,  and  you  undergo  a  trifling  delay  in  consequence  of  having 
carefully  packed  up  one  of  your  boots  in  your  over  anxiety  of 
the  preceding  night.  You  soon  complete  your  toilet,  however, 
for  you  are  not  particular  on  such  an  occasion,  and  you  shaved 
yesterday  evening ;  so  mounting  your  Petersham  great-coat, 
and  green  travelling  shawl,  and  grasping  your  carpet-bag  in 
your  right  hand,  you  walk  lightly  down  stairs,  lest  you  shoulcf 
awaken  any  of  the  family,  and  after  pausing  in  the  commorj 
sitting-room  for  one  moment,  just  to  have  a  cup  of  coffeei 
(the  said  common  sitting-room  looking  remarkably  comfort- 
able, with  everything  out  of  its  place,  and  strewed  with  tha 
crumbs  of  last  night's  supper),  you  undo  the  chain  and  bolts 
of  the  street-door,  and  find  yourself  fairly  in  the  street. 

A  thaw,  by  all  fliat  is  miserable  !  The  frost  is  completely 
broken  up.  You  look  down  the  long  perspective  of  Oxford- 
street,  the  gas-lights  mournfully  reflected  on  the  wet  pave- 
ment, and  can  discern  no  speck  in  the  road  to  encourage  the 
belief  that  there  is  a  cab  or  a  coach  to  be  had — the  very  coach- 
men have  gone  home  in  despair.  The  cold  sleet  is  drizzling 
down  with  that  gentle  regularity,  \vhich  betokens  a  duration 
of  four-and-twenty  hours  at  least  ;  the  damp  hangs  upon  the 
house-tops  and  lamp-posts,  and  clings  to  you  like  an  invisible 
cloak.  The  water  is  coming  in  "  in  every  area,  the  pipes 
have  burst,  the  water-butts  are  running  over  ;  the  kennels 
seem  to  be  doing  matches  against  time,  pump-handles  descend 
of  their  own  accord,  horses  in  market-carts  fall  down,  and 
there's  no  one  to  help  them  up  again,  policemen  look  as  if 
they  had  been  carefully  sprinkled  with  powdered-glass  ;  here 
and  there  a  milk-woman  trudges  slowly  along,  with  a  bit  of 
list  round  each  foot  to  keep  her  from  slipping  ;  boys  who 
"  don't  sleep  in  the  house,''  and  are  not  allowed  much  sleep 
out  of  it,  can't  wake  their  masters  by  thundering  at  the  shop- 
door,  and  cry  with  the  cold — the  compound  of  ice,  snow,  and 
water  on  the  pavement,  is  a  couple  of  inches  thick — nobody 


478 


SKE  TCHES  B  V  BOZ, 


ventures  to  walk  fast  to  keep  himself  warm,  and  nobody  could 
succeed  in  keeping  himself  warm  if  he  did. 

It  strikes  a  quarter  past  five  as  you  trudge  down  Waterloo- 
place  on  your  way  to  the  Golden  Cross,  and  you  discover,  for 
the  first  time,  that  you  were  called  about  an  hour  too  early. 
You  have  not  time  to  go  back  ;  there  is  no  place  open  to  go 
into,  and  you  have,  therefore,  no  resource  but  to  go  forward, 
tvhich  you  do,  feeling  remarkably  satisfied  with  yourself,  and 
everything  about  you.  You  arrive  at  the  ofiice,  and  look 
vistfuUy  up  the  yard  for  the  Birmingham  High-flier,  which, 
Tor  aught  you  can  see,  may  have  flown  away  altogether,  for  no 
preparations  appear  to  be  on  foot  for  the  departure  of  any 
vehicle  in  the  shape  of  a  coach.  You  wander  into  the  book- 
ing-oflice,  which  with  the  gas-lights  and  blazing  fire,  looks 
quite  comfortable  by  contrast — that  is  to  say,  if  any  place  can 
look  comfortable  at  half-past  five  on  a  winter's  morning. 
There  stands  the  identical  book-keeper  in  the  same  position 
as  if  he  had  not  moved  since  you  saw  him  yesterday.  As  he 
informs  you,  that  the  coach  is  up  the  yard,  and  will  be  brought 
round  in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  you  leave  your  bag,  and 
repair  to  "  The  Tap  " — not  with  any  absurd  idea  of  warming 
yourself,  because  you  feel  such  a  result  to 'be  utterly  hopeless, 
but  for  the  purpose  of  procuring  some  hot  brandy-and-water, 
which  you  do, — when  the  kettle  boils !  an  event  which  occurs 
exactly  two  minutes  and  a  half  before  the  time  fixed  for  the 
starting  of  the  coach. 

The  first  stroke  of  six,  peals  from  St.  Martin's  cliurch 
steeple,  just  as  you  take  the  first  sip  of  the  boiling  liquid. 
You  find  yourself  at  the  booking-office  in  two  seconds,  and  the 
tap-waiter  finds  himself  much  comforted  by  your  brandy-and- 
water,  in  about  the  same  period.  The  coach  is  out  ;  the 
horses  are  in,  and  the  guard  and  two  or  three  porters,  are 
stowing  the  luggage  away,  and  running  up  the  steps  of  the 
booking-office,  and  down  the  steps  of  the  booking-office,  with 
breathless  rapidity.  The  place,  which  a  few  minutes  ago  was 
so  still  and  quiet,  is  now  all  bustle ;  the  early  vendors  of  the 
morning  papers  have  arrived,  and  you  are  assailed  on  all  sides 
with  shouts  of  Tiines^  gen'lm'n,  Times^^''  "  Here's  Chron — ^ 
Chron — Chron^^''  "  ZT^r^Z^/- ma'am,''  "  Highly  interesting  mur- 
der, gen'lm'n,"  "  Curious  case  o'  breach  o'  promise,  ladies." 
The  inside  passengers  are  ah-eady  in  their  dens,  and  the  out- 
sides,  with  the  exception  of  yourself,  are  pacing  up  and  down 
the  pavement  to  keep  themselves  warm  ;  they  consist  of  two 


OMNIBUSES, 


479 


young  men  with  very  long  hair,  to  which  the  sleet  has  com- 
municated the  appearance  of  crystallized  rats'  tails  ;  one  thin 
young  woman  cold  and  peevish,  one  old  gentleman  ditto  ditto, 
and  something  in  a  cloak  and*  cap,  intended  to  represent  a 
military  officer  ,  every  member  of  the  party,  with  a  large  stiff 
shawl  over  his  chin,  looking  exactly  as  if  he  were  playing  a  set 
of  Pan's  pipes. 

"  Take  off  the  cloths,  Bob,"  says  the  coachman,  who  now 
appears  for  the  first  time,  in  a  rough  blue  great-coat,  of  which 
the  buttons  behind  are  so  far  apart,  that  you  can't  see  them 
both  at  the  same  time.  "Now,  gen'lm'n,"  cries  the  guard, 
with  the  waybill  in  his  hand.  "  Plve  minutes  behind  time 
already  !  "  Up  jump  the  passengers — the  two  young  men  smok- 
ing like  lime-kilns,  and  the  old  gentleman  grumbling  audibly. 
The  thin  young  woman  is  got  upon  the  roof,  by  dint  of  a 
great  deal  of  pulling,  and  pushing,  and  helping  and  troublft^ 
and  she  repays  it  by  expressing  her  solemn  conviction  that  she 
will  never  be  able  to  get  down  again. 

''AH  right,"  sings  out  the  guard  at  last,  jumping  up  as  the 
coach  starts,  and  blowing  his  horn  directly  afterw^ards,  in 
proof  of  the  soundness  of  his  wind.  ''  Let  'em  go,  Harry,  give 
'em  their  heads,"  cries  the  coachman — and  off  we  start  as 
briskly  as  if  the  morning  were  '*  all  right,"  as  well  as  the 
coach  :  and  looking  forward  as  anxiously  to  the  termination 
of  our  journey,  as  we  fear  our  readers  will  have  done,  long 
since,  to  the  conclusion  of  our  paper. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

OMNIBUSES, 

It  is  very  generally  allowed  that  public  conveyances  afford 
an  extensive  field  for  amusement  and  observation.  Of  all  the 
public  conveyances  that  have  been  constructed  since  the  days 
of  tiie  Ark — we  think  that  is  the  earliest  on  record — to  the 
present  time,  commend  us  to  an  omnibus.  A  long  stage  is 
not  to  be  despised,  but  there  you  have  only  six  insides,  and 
the  chancer;  are,  that  the  same  people  go  all  the  way  with  you 
— there  is  no  change,  no  variety.  Besides,  after  the  first 
21 


480 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


twelve  hours  or  so,  people  get  cross  and  sleepy,  and  when  you 
have  seen  a  man  in  his  nightcap,  you  lose  ail  respect  for  him  j 
at  least,  that  is  the  case  with  us.  Then  on  smooth  roads 
people  frequently  get  prosy,  "and  tell  long  stories,  and  even 
those  who  don't  talk,  may  have  very  unpleasant  predilections. 
We  once  travelled  four  hundred  miles,  inside  a  stage-coach, 
with  a  stout  man,  who  had  a  glass  of  rum-and-water,  warm, 
handed  in  at  the  window  at  every  place  where  we  changed 
horses.  This  was  decidedly  unpleasant.  We  have  also 
travelled  occasionally,  with  a  small  boy  of  a  pale  aspect,  with 
light  hair,  and  no  perceptible  neck,  coming  up  to  town  frcm 
school  under  the  protection  of  ihe  guard,  and  directed  to  be 
left  at  the  Cross  Keys  till  called  for.  This  is,  perhaps,  even 
worse  than  rum-and-water  in  a  close  atmosphere.  Then  there 
is  the  whole  train  of  evils  consequent  on  a  change  of  the 
coachman  :  and  the  misery  of  the  discovery — which  the  guard 
is  sure  to  make  the  moment  you  begin  to  doze — that  he  wants 
a  brown-paper  parcel,  which  he  distinctly  remembers  to  have 
deposited  under  the  seat  on  which  you  are  reposing.  A  great 
deal  of  bustle  and  groping  takes  place,  and  when  you  are 
thoroughly  awakened,  and  severely  cramped,  by  holding  your 
legs  up  by  an  almost  supernatural  exertion,  Vvhile  he  is  look- 
ing behind  them,  it  suddenly  occurs  to  him  that  he  put  it  in 
the  fore-boot.  Bang  goes  the  door  ;  the  parcel  is  immediately 
found  ;  off  starts  the  coach  again  ;  and  the  guard  plays  the 
key-bugle  as  loud  as  he  can  play  it,  as  if  in  mockery  of  your 
wretchedness. 

Now,  you  meet  with  none  of  these  afflictions  in  an  omni- 
bus :  sameness  there  can  never  be.  The  passengers  change 
as  often  in  the  course  of  one  journey  as  the  figures  in  a 
kaleidoscope,  and  though  not  so  glittering,  are  far  more  amus- 
ing. We  believe  there  is  no  instance  on  record,  of  a  man's 
having  gone  to  sleep  in  one  of  these  vehicles.  As  to  long 
stories,  would  any  man  venture  to  tell  a  long  story  in  an 
omnibus  ?  and  even  if  he  did,  where  would  be  the  harm  ?  no- 
body could  possibly  hear  what  he  was  talking  about.  Again  ; 
children,  though  occasionally,  are  not  often  to  be  found  in  an 
omnibus  ]  and  even  when  they  are,  if  the  vehicle  be  full,  as  is 
generally  the  case,  somebody  sits  upon  them,  and  we  are  un- 
conscious of  their  presence.  Yes,  after  mature  reflection,  and 
considerable  experience,  w^e  are  decidedly  of  opinion,  that  of 
all  known  vehicles,  from  the  glass-coach  in  which  we  were 
taken  to  be  christened,  to  that  sombre  caravan  in  which  we 


OMNIBUSES.  ^  ,;8l 

must  one  day  make  our  last  earthly  journey,  there  is  nothing 
like  an  omnibus. 

We  will  back  the  machine  in  which  we  make  our  daily 
peregrination  from  the  top  of  Oxford-street  to  the  city,  against" 
any  "  buss  on  the  road,  whether  it  be  for  the  gaudiness  of 
its  exterior,  the  perfect  simplicity  of  its  interior,  or  the  native 
coolness  of  its  cad.  This  young  gentleman  is  a  singular  in- 
stance of  self-devotion ;  his  somewhat  intemperate  zeal  on  be- 
half of  his  employers,  is  constantly  getting  him  into  trouble, 
and  occasionally  into  the  house  of  correction.  He  is  no 
sooner  emancipated,  however,  than  he  resumes  the  duties  of 
his  profession  with  unabated  ardor.  His  principal  distinction 
is  his  activity.  His  great  boast  is,  "  that  he  can  chuck  an  old 
gen'lm'n  into  the  buss,  shut  him  in,  and  rattle  off,  afore  he 
knows  where  it's  a-going  to  " — a  feat  which  he  frequently  per- 
forms, to  the  infinite  amusement  of  every  one  but  the  old 
gentleman  concerned,  who,  somehow  or  other,  never  can  see 
the  joke  of  the  thing. 

We  are  not  aware  that  it  has  ever  been  precisely  ascer- 
tained, how  many  passengers  our  omnibus  will  contain.  The 
impression  on  the  cad's  mind,  evidently  is,  that  it  is  amply 
sufficient  for  the  accommodation  of  any  number  of  persons 
that  can  be  enticed  into  it.  Any  room  1 "  cries  a  very 
hot  pedestrian.  "  Plenty  o'  room,  sir,"  replies  the  conductor, 
gradually  opening  the  door,  and  not  disclosing  the  real  state 
of  the  case,  until  the  wretched  man  is  on  the  steps.  Where  ?  " 
inquires  the  entrapped  individual,  with  an  attempt  to  back  out 
again.  ^''Either  side,  sir,"  rejoins  the  cad,  shoving  him  in, 
and  slamming  the  door.  ^' All  right,  Bill."  Retreat  is  impos- 
sible ;  the  new-comer  rolls  about,  till  he  falls  down  somewhere, 
and  there  he  stops. 

As  we  get  into  the  city  a  little  before  ten,  four  or  five  of 
our  party  are  regular  passengers.  We  always  take  them  up 
at  the  same  places,  and  they  generally  occupy  the  same  seats  ; 
they  are  always  dressed  in  the  same  manner,  and  invariably 
discuss  the  same  topics — the  increasing  rapidity  of  cabs,  and 
the  disregard  of  moral  obligations  evinced  by  omnibus  men. 
There  is  a  little  testy  old  man,  with  a  powdered  head,  vvho 
always  sits  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  door  as  you  enter, 
with  his  hands  folded  on  the  top  of  his  umbrella.  He  is 
extremely  impatient,  and  sits  there  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  a 
sharp  eye  on  the  cad,  with  whom  he  generally  holds  a  running 
dialogue.    He  is  very  officious  in  helping  people  in  and  out, 


482 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


and  always  volunteers  to  give  the  cad  a  poke  with  his  umbrells, 
when  any  one  wants  to  alight.  He  usually  recommends  ladies 
to  have  sixpence  ready,  to  prevent  delay  ;  and  if  anybody 
puts  a  window  down,  that  he  can  reach,  he  immediately  puts 
it  up  again. 

Now,  what  are  you  stopping  for?  "says  the  little  man 
every  morning,  the  moment  there  is  the  slightest  indication 
of  "  pulling  up at  the  corner  of  Regent-street,  when  some 
such  dialogue  as  the  following  takes  place  between  huii  and  the 
cad : 

"  What  are  3^ou  stopping  for?  " 

Here  the  cad  whistles,  and  affects  not  to  hear  the  ques- 
tion. 

"  I  say  [a  poke],  what  are  you  stopping  for? 

"  For  passengers,  sir.    Ba — nk. — Ty." 
I  know  you're  stopping  for  passengers  ;  but  you've  no 
business  to  do  so.     Why  are  you  stopping  ?  " 

"  Vy,  sir,  that's  a  difficult  question.  1  think  it  is  because 
we  perfer  stopping  here  to  going  on." 

"Now  mind,"  exclaims  the  little  old  man,  with  great 
vehemence,  "  I'll  pull  you  up  to-morrow  ;  I've  often  threatened 
to  do  it  ;  now  I  will,"  . 

''Thankee,  sir,"  replies  the  cad,  touching  his  hat  with  a 
mock  expression  of  gratitude  : — "  werry  much  obliged  to  you 
indeed,  sir."  Here  the  young  men  in  the  omnibus  laugh  very 
heartily,  and  the  old  gentleman  gets  very  red  in  the  face,  and 
seems  highly  exasperated. 

The  stout  gentleman  in  the  white  neckcloth,  at  'the  other 
end  of  the  vehicle,  looks  very  prophetic,  and  says  that  some- 
thing must  shortly  be  done  with  these  fellows,  or  there's  no 
saying  where  all  this  v/ill  end  ;  and  the  shabby-genteel  man 
with  the  green  bag,  expresses  his  entire  concurrence  in  the 
opinion,  as  he  has  done  regularly  every  morning  for  the  last 
six  months. 

A  second  omnibus  now  comes  up,  and  stops  immediately 
behind  us.  Another  old  gentleman  elevates  his  cane  in  the 
air,  and  runs  with  all  his  might  towards  our  omnibus  ;  we 
watch  his  progress  with  great  interest ;  the  door  is  opened  to 
receive  him,  he  suddenly  disappears — he  has  been  spirited 
away  by  the  opposition.  Hereupon  the  driver  of  the  opposi- 
tion taunts  our  people  with  his  having  "  regularly  done  'em 
out  of  that  old  swell,"  and  the  voice  of  the  old  swell"  is  heard, 
irainly  protesting  against  this  unlawful  detention.    We  rattle 


THE  LAST  CAB-DRIVER,  ETC. 


483 


off,  the  other  omnibus  rattles  after  us,  and  every  time  we  stop 
to  take  up  a  passenger,  they  stop  to  take  him  too  ;  sometimes 
we  get  him  ;  sometimes  they  get  him  ;  but  whoever  don't  get 
him,  say  they  ought  to  have  had  him,  and  the  cads  of  tlie 
respective  vehicles  abuse  one  ahother  accordingly. 

As  we  arrive  m  the  vicinity  of  Lincoln's-inn-fields,  Bedford- 
row,  and  other  legal  haunts,  we  drop  a  great  many  of  our 
original  passengers,  and  take  up  fresh  ones  who  meet  with  a 
very  sulky  reception.  It  is  rather  remarkable,  that  the  people 
already  in  an  omnibus,  always  look  at  new-comers,  as  if  they 
entertained  some  undefined  idea  that  they  have  no  business 
to  come  in  at  all.  We  are  quite  persuaded  the  little  old  man 
has  some  notion  of  this  kind,  and  that  he  considers  their 
entry  as  a  sort  of  negative  impertinence. 

Conversation  is  now  entirely  dropped  ;  each  person  gazes 
vacantly  through  the  window  in  front  of  him,  and  everybody 
thinks  that  his  opposite  neighbor  is  staring  at  him.  If  one 
man  gets  out  at  Shoe-lane,  and  another  at  the  corner  of  Farring- 
don-street,  the  little  old  gentleman  grumbles,  and  suggests  to 
the  latter,  that  if  he  had  got  out  at  Shoe-lane  too,  he  would 
have  saved  them  the  delay  of  another  stoppage  ;  whereupon  - 
the  young  men  laugh  again,  and  the  old  gentleman  looks  very 
solemn,  and  says  nothing  more  till  he  gets  to  the  Bank,  when 
he  trots  off  as  fast  as  he  can,  leaving  us  to  do  the  same,  and 
to  wish,  as-  we  walk  away,  that  we  could  impart  to  others  any 
portion  of  the  amusement  we  have  gained  for  ourselves. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  LAST  CAB-DRIVER,   AND  THE  FIRST  OMNIBUS  CAD. 

Of  all  the  cabriolet-drivers  whom  we  have  ever  had  the 
honor  and  gratification  of  knowing  by  sight — and  our  acquaint- 
ance in  this  way  has  been  most  extensive — there  is  one  who 
made  an  impression  on  our  mind  which  can  never  be  effaced, 
and  who  awakened  in  our  bosom  a  feeling  of  admiration  and 
respect,  which  we  entertain  a  fatal  presentiment  will  never  be 
called  forth  again  by  any  human  being.  He  was  a  man  of 
most  simple  and  prepossessing  appearance.    He  was  a  brown- 


484 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


whiskered,  white-hatted,  no-coated  cabman  ;  his  nose  was 
generally  red,  and  his  bright  blue  eye  not  unfrequently  stood 
out  in  bold  relief  against  a  black  border  of  artificial  workman- 
ship  ;  his  boots  were  of  the  Wellington  form,  pulled  up  to 
meet  his  corduroy  knee-small^^,  or  at  least  to  approach  as  near 
them  as  their  dimensions  would  admit  of  ;  and  his  neck  was 
usually  garnished  with  a  bright  yellow  handkerchief.  In 
summer  he  carried  in  his  mouth  a  flower  ;  in  winter,  a  straw 
— slight,  but  to  a  contemplative  mind,  certain  indications  of  a 
love  of  nature,  and  a  taste  for  botany. 

His  cabriolet  was  gorgeously  painted — a  bright  red  ;  and 
wherever  w^e  went,  City  or  West  End,  Paddington  or  Holloway, 
North,  East,  West,  or  South,  there  was  the  red  cab,  bumping 
up  against  the  posts  at  the  street  corners,  and  turning  in  and 
out,  among  hackney-coaches,  and  drays,  and  carts  and  wagons, 
and  omnibuses,  and  contriving  by  some  strange  means  or  other, 
to  get  out  of  places  which  no  other  vehicle  but  the  red  cab  could 
ever  by  any  possibility  have  contrived  to  get  into  at  all.  Our 
fondness  for  that  red  cab  w^as  unbounded-  How  we  should 
have  liked  to  have  seen  it  in  the  circle  at  Astley's  !  Our  life 
upon  it,  that  it  should  have  performed  such  evolutions  as 
would  have  put  the  whole  company  to  shame — Indian  chiefs, 
knights,  Swiss  peasants  and  all. 

Some  people  object  to  the  exertion  of  getting  into  cabs, 
and  others  object  to  the  difficulty  of  getting  out  of  them ;  we 
think  both  these  are  objections  which  take  their  rise  in  per- 
verse and  ill-conditioned  minds.  The  getting  into  a  cab  is  a 
very  pretty  and  graceful  process,  which,  when  well  performed, 
is  essentially  melodramatic.  First,  there  is  the  expressive 
pantomime  of  every  one  of  the  eighteen  cabmen  on  the  stand, 
the  momeat  you  raise  your  eyes  from  the  ground.  Then 
there  is  your  own  pantomime  in  reply — quite  a  little  ballet. 
P'our  cabs  immediately  leave  the  stand  for  your  especial  ac- 
commodation ;  and  the  evolutions  of  the  animals  w^ho  draw 
them  are  beautiful  in  the  extreme,  as  thej  grate  the  wheels  of 
the  cabs  against  the  curb-stones,  and  sport  playfully  in  the 
kennel.  You  single  out  a  particular  cab,  and  dart  swiftly 
towards  it.  One  bound,  and  you  are  on  the  first  step ;  turn 
your  body  lightly  round  to  the  right,  and  you  are  on  the  sec- 
ond ;  bend  gracefully  beneath  the  reins,  working  round  to  the 
left  at  the  same  time,  and  you  are  in  the  cab.  There  is  no 
difficulty  in  finding  a  seat ;  the  apron  knocks  you  comfortably 
into  it  at  once,  and  off  you  go. 


THE  LAST  CAB-DRIVER,  ETC.  485 

The  getting  out  of  a  cab  is,  perhaps,  rather  more  compli- 
cated in  its  theory,  and  a  shade  more  difficult  in  its  execution. 
We  have  studied  the  subject  a  great  deal,  and  we  think  the 
best  way  is,  to  throw  yourself  out,  and  trust  to  chance  for 
alighting  on  your  feet.  If  you  make  the  driver  alight  first, 
and  then  throw  yourself  upon  him,  you  will  find  that  he  breaks 
your  fall  materially.  In  the  event  of  your  contemplating  an 
offer  of  eightpence,  on  no  account  make  the  tender  or  show 
the  money,  until  you  are  safely  on  the  pavement.  It  is  very 
bad  policy  attempting  to  save  the  fourpence.  You  are  very 
much  in  the  power  of  a  cabman,  and  he  considers  it  a  kind  of 
fee  not  to  do  you  any  wilful  damage.  Any  instruction,  how- 
ever, in  the  art  of  getting  out  of  a  cab,  is  wholly  unneces- 
sary if  you  are  going  any  distance,  because  the  probability  is, 
that  you  will  be  shot  lightly  out  before  you  have  completed 
the  third  mile.  ~ 

We  are  not  aware  of  any  instance  on  record  in  which  a 
cab  horse  has  performed  three  consecutive  miles  without 
gov^ig  down  once.  What  of  that  ?  It  is  all  excitement.  And 
in  these  days  of  derangement  of  the  nervous  system  and  uni- 
versal lassitude,  people  are  content  to  pay  handsomely  for 
excitement ;  where  can  it  be  procured  at  a  cheaper  rate  ? 

But  to  return  to  the  red  cab ;  it  was  omnipresent.  You 
had  but  to  walk  down  Holborn  or  Fleet  streets,  or  any  of  the 
principal  thoroughfares  in  which  there  is  a  great  deal  of  traffic, 
and  judge  for  yourself.  You  had  hardly  turned  into  the 
street,  when  you  saw  a  trunk  or  two  lying  on  the  ground  :  an 
uprooted  post,  a  hat-box,  a  portmanteau,  and  a  carpet-bag, 
strewed  about  in  a  very  picturesque  manner :  a  horse  in  a  cab 
standing  by,  looking  about  him  with  great  unconcern ;  and  a 
crowd,  shouting  and  screaming  with  delight,  cooling  their 
flushed  faces  against  the  glass  windows  of  a  chemist's  shop. — 
What's  the  matter  here,  can  you  tell  me  ?  " — "  On'y  a  cab, 
sir." — ^'Anybody  hurt,  do  you  know?  " — "  O'ny  the  fare,  sir. 
I  see  him  a  turnin'  the  corner,  and  I  ses  to  another  gen'lm'n 
^  that's  a  reg'lar  little  oss  that,  and  he's  a  comin'  along  rayther 
sweet,  ain't  he? ' — '  He  just  is,'  says  the  other  gen'lm'n,  ven 
bump  they  cums  agin  the  post,  and  out  flies  the  fare  like 
bricks."  Need  we  say  it  was  the  red  cab  ;  or  that  the  gentle- 
men with  the  straw  in  his  mouth,  who  emerged  so  coolly  from 
the  chemist's  shop  and  philosophically  climbing  into  the  little 
dickey,  started  off  at  full  gallop,  was  the  red  cab's  licensed 
driver  ? 


486  SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 

The  ubiquity  of  this  red  cab,  and  the  influence  it  exercised 
over  the  risible  muscles  of  justice  itself,  was  perfectly  aston- 
ishing. You  walked  into  the  justice  room  of  the  Mansion- 
house  ;  the  whole  court  resounded  with  merriment.  The  Lord 
Mayor  threw  himself  back  m  his  chair,  ni  a  ;  l^le  of  frantic 
delight  at  his  own  joke  ;  every  vein  in  Mr.  Hobler's  counte-^ 
nance  was  swollen  with  laughter,  partly  at  the  Lord  Mayor's 
facetiousness,  but  more  at  his  own  ;  the  constables  and  police 
officers  were  (as  in  duty  bound)  in  ecstacies  at  Mr.  Hobler 
and  the  Lord  Mayor  combined  ;  and  the  very  paupers,  glanc- 
ing respectfully  at  the  beadle's  countenance,  tried  to  smile,  as 
even  he  relaxed.  A  tall,  weazen-faced  man,  with  an  impedi- 
ment in  his  speech,  would  be  endeavoring  to  state  a  case  of 
imposition  against  the  red  cab's  driver;  and  the  red  cab's 
driver,  and  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  Mr.  Hobler,  would  be  having 
a  little  fun  among  themselves^  to  the  inordinate  delight  of 
everybody  but  the  complainant.  In  the  end,  justice  would  be 
so  tickled  with  the  red-cab-driver's  native  humor,  that  the  fine 
would  be  mitigated,  and  he  would  go  away  full  gallop,  in  the 
red  cab,  to  impose  on  somebody  else  without  loss  of  time. 

The  driver  of  the  red  cab,  confident  in  the  strength  of  his 
own  moral  principles,  like  many  other  philosophers,  was  wont 
to  set  the  feelings  and  opinions  of  society  at  complete  defiance. 
Generally  speaking,  perhaps,  he  would  as  soon  carry  a  fare 
safely  to  his  destination,  as  he  would  upset  him — sooner,  per- 
haps, because  in  that  case  he  not  only  got  the  money,  but  had 
the  additional  amusement  of  running  a  longer  heat  against 
some  smart  rival.  But  society  made  war  upon  him  in  the 
shape  of  penalties,  and  he  must  make  war  upon  society  in  his 
own  way.  This  was  the  reasoning  of  the  red-cab-driver.  So, 
he  bestowed  a  searching  look  upon  the  fare,  as  he  put  his 
hand  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  when  he  had  gone  half  the 
mile,  to  get  the  money  ready ;  and  if  he  brought  forth  eight- 
pence,  out  he  went. 

The  last  time  we  saw  our  friend  was  one  wet  evening  in 
Tottenham-court-road,  when  he  was  engaged  in  a  very  warm 
and  somewhat  personal  altercation  with  a  loquacious  little 
gentleman  in  a  green  coat.  Poor  fellow !  there  were  great 
excuses  to  be  made  for  him  :  he  had  not  received  above 
eighteenpence  more  than  his  fare,  and  consequently  labored 
under  a  great  deal  of  very  natural  indignation.  The  dispute 
had  attained  a  pretty  considerable  height,  when  at  last  the 
loquacious  little  gentleman,  making  a  mental  calculation  of  the 


THE  LAST  CAB-DRIVER,  ETC. 


487 


distance,  and  finding  that  he  had  already  paid  more  than  he 
ought,  avowed  his  unalterable  determination  to  "  pull  up  "  the 
cabman  in  the  morning. 

"  Now,  just  mark  this,  young  man,''  said  the  little  gentle- 
man,  "  I'll  pull  you  up  to-morrow  morning." 

^'  No !  will  you,  though  ?  "  said  our  friend,  with  a  sneer. 

^'  I  will,"  replied  the  little  gentleman,  "  mark  my  words, 
that's  all.  If  I  live  till  to-morrow  morning,  you  shall  repent 
this." 

There  was  a  steadiness  of  purpose,  and  indignation  of 
speech,  about  the  little  gentleman,  as  he  took  an  angry  pinch 
of  snuff,  after  this  last  declaration,  which  made  a  visible  impres- 
sion on  the  mind  of  the  red-cab-driver.  He  appeared  to  hesitate 
for  an  instant.  It  was  only  for  an  instant ;  his  resolve  was 
soon  taken. 

"  You'll  pull  me  up,  will  you  ? "  said  our  friend. 

"  I  will,"  rejoined  the  little  gentleman,  with  even  greater 
vehemence  than  before. 

"  Very  well,"  said  our  friend,  tucking  up  his  shirt  sleeves 
very  calmly.  "  There'll  be  three  veeks  for  that.  Wery  good  ; 
that'll  bring  me  up  to  the  middle  o'  next  month.  Three  veeks 
more  would  carry  me  on  to  my  birthday,  and  then  I've  got  ten 
pound  to  draw.  I  may  as  well  get  board,  lodgin'  and  washin' 
till  then,  out  of  the  county,  as  pay  for  it  myself  ;  consequently 
here  goes  !  " 

So,  without  more  ado,  the  red-cab-driver  knocked  the  little 
gentleman  down,  and  then  called  the  police  to  take  himself 
into  custody,  with  all  the  civility  in  the  world. 

A  story  is  nothing  without  the  sequel  ;  and  therefore,  we 
may  state,  that  to  our  certain  knowledge,  the  board,  lodging, 
and  washing,  were  all  provided  in  due  course.  We  happen 
to  know  the  fact,  for  it  came  to  our  knowledge  thus  :  We 
went  over  the  House  of  Correction  for  the  county  of  Middle- 
sex shortly  after,  to  witness  the  operation  of  the  silent  system  ; 
and  looked  on  all  the  "  wheels  "  with  the  greatest  anxiety,  in 
search  of  our  long-lost  friend.  He  was  nowhere  to  be  seen, 
however,  and  we  began  to  think  that  the  little  gentleman  in 
the  green  coat  must  have  relented,  when,  as  we  were  traversing 
the  kitchen-garden,  which  lies  in  a  sequestered  part  of  the 
prison,  we  were  startled  by  hearing  a  voice,  which  apparently 
proceeded  from  the  wall,  pouring  forth  its  soul  in  the  plain- 
tive air  of  ''All  round  my  hat,"  which  was  then  just  begin- 
ning to  form  a  recognized  portion  of  our  national  music. 


488 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


We  started. — "  What  voice  is  that  ?    said  we. 
The  Governor  shook  his  head. 

"Sad  fellow,"  he  replied,  "  very  sad.  He  positively  re 
fused  to  work  on  the  wheel  ;  so,  after  many  trials,  I  was  com- 
pelled to  order  him  into  solitary  confinement.  He  says  he 
likes  it  very  much  though,  and  I  am  afraid  he  does,  for  he 
lies  on  his  back  on  the  floor,  and  sings  comic  songs  all 
day !  " 

Shall  we  add,  that  our  heart  had  not  deceived  us  ;  and 
that  the  comic  singer  was  no  other  than  our  eagerly-sought 
friend,  the  red-cab-driver? 

We  have  never  seen  him  since,  but  we  have  strong  reason 
to  suspect  that  this  noble  individual  was  a  distant  relative  of  a 
waterman  of  our  acquaintance,  who,  on  one  occasion,  when 
we  were  passing  the  coach-stand  over  which  he  presides,  after 
standing  very  quietly  to  see  a  tall  man  struggle  into  a  cab, 
ran  up  very  briskly  when  it  was  all  over  (as  his  brethren  in- 
variably do),  and,  touching  his  hat,  asked,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  for  "a  copper  for  the  waterman."  Now,  the  fare  was 
by  no  means  a  handsome  man  ;  and,  waxing  very  indignant 
at  the  demand,  he  replied — "  Money  !  What  for  ?  Coming 
up  and  looking  at  me,  I  suppose  ?  " — "  Veil,  sir,"  rejoined  the 
waterman,  v/ith  a  smile  of  immovable  complacency,  "  Thafs 
worth  twopence." 

This  identical  waterman  afterwards  attained  a  very  promi- 
ment  station  in  society  ;  and  as  we  know  something  of  his 
life,  and  have  often  thought  of  telling  what  we  do  know,  per- 
haps we  shall  never  have  a  better  opportunity  than  the  pres- 
ent. 

Mr.  William  Barker,  then,  for  that  was  the  gentleman's 
name,  Mr.  William  Barker  was  born  —  But  why  need  we 
relate  where  Mr.  William  Barker  was  born,  or  when  ?  Why 
scrutinize  the  entries  in  parochial  ledgers,  or  seek  to  penetrate 
the  Lucinian  mysteries  of  lying-in  hospitals  Mr.  William 
Barker  was  born,  or  he  had  never  been.  There  is  a  son — 
there  was  a  father.  There  is  an  effect — there  was  a  cause. 
Surely  this  is  sufficient  information  for  the  most  Fatima-like 
curiosity  ;  and,  if  it  be  not,  we  regret  our  inability  to  supply 
any  further  evidence  on  the  point.  Can  there  be  a  more  sat- 
isfactory, or  more  strictly  parliamentary  course  ?  Impossible. 

We  at  once  avow  a  similar  inability  to  record  at  what  pre- 
cise period,  or  by  what  particular  process,  this  gentleman's 
patronymic,  of  William  Barker,  became  corrupted  into  "  BiU 


THE  LAST  CAB-DRIVER,  ETC* 


489 


Boorker.''  Mr.  Barker  acquired  a  high  standing,  and  no  in- 
considerable reputation,  among  the  members  of  that  profes- 
sion  to  which  he  more  pecuharly  devoted  his  energies  ;  and 
to  them  he  was  generally  known,  either  by  the  familiar  appel- 
lation of  "  Bill  Boorker,"  or  the  flattering  designation  of  Ag- 
gerawatin  Bill,"  the  latter  being  a  playful  and  expressive 
sobriquet^  illustrative  of  Mr.  Barker's  great  talent  in  "  aggera- 
watin  "  and  rendering  wild  such  subjects  of  her  Majesty  as 
are  conveyed  from  place  to  place,  through  the  instrumentality 
of  omnibuses.  Of  the  early  life  of  Mr.  Barker  little  is  known, 
and  even  that  little  is  involved  in  considerable  doubt  and  ob- 
scurity. A  want  of  application,  a  restlessness  of  purpose,  a 
thirsting  after  porter,  a  love  of  all  that  is  roving  and  cadger- 
like in  nature,  shared  in  common  with  many  other  great 
geniuses,  appear  to  have  been  his  leading  characteristics. 
The  busy  hum  of  a  parochial  free-school,  and  the  shady  re- 
pose of  a  county  jail,  were  alike  inefificacious  in  producing 
the  slightest  alteration  in  Mr.  Barker's  disposition.  His 
feverish  attachment  to  change  and  variety  notning  could  re- 
press; his  native  daring  no  punishment  could  subdue. 

If  Mr.  Barker  can  be  fairly  said  to  have  had  any  weakness 
in  his  earlier  years,  it  was  an  amiable  one — love  ;  love  in  its 
most  comprehensive  form  —  a  love  of  ladies,  liquids,  and 
pocket-handkerchiefs.  It  vv^as  no  selfish  feeling  \  it  was  not 
confined  to  his  own  possessions,  which  but  too  many  men  re- 
gard with  exclusive  complacency.  No  ;  it  was  a  nobler  love 
— a  general  principle.  It  extended  itself  with  equal  force  to 
the  property  of  other  people. 

There  is  something  very  affecting  in  this.  It  is  still  more 
affecting  to  know,  that  such  philanthropy  is  but  imperfectly 
rewarded.  Bow-street,  Newgate,  and  Millbank,  are  a  poor 
return  for  general  benevolence,  evincing  itself  in  an  irrepres- 
sible love  for  all  created  objects.  Mr.  Barker  felt  it  so.  Af- 
ter a  lengthened  interview  with  the  highest  legal  authorities, 
he  quitted  his  ungrateful  country,  with  the  consent,  and  at 
the  expense,  of  its  Government ;  proceeded  to  a  distant  shore  \ 
and  there  employed  himself,  like  another  Cincinnatus,  in 
clearing  and  cultivating  the  soil — a  peaceful  pursuit,  in  which 
a  term  of  seven  years  glided  almost  imperceptibly  away. 

Whether,  at  the  expiration  of  the  period  we  have  just  men- 
tioned, the  British  Government  required  Mr.  Barker's  pres- 
ence here,  or  did  not  require  his  residence  abroad,  we  have 
no  distinct  means  of  ascertaining.    We  should  be  inclined, 


SKETCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 


however,  to  favor  the  latter  position,  inasmuch  as  we  do  not 
find  that  he  was  advanced  to  any  other  pubUc  post  on  his  re 
turn,  then  the  post  at  the  corner  of  the  Hay-market,  where  he 
officiated  as  assistant-waterman  to  the  hackney-coach-stand. 
Seated,  in  this  capacity,  on  a  couple  of  tubs  near  the  curb^ 
stone,  with  a  brass  plate  and  number  suspended  round  his 
neck  by  a  massive  chain,  and  his  ankles  curiously  enveloped 
in  haybands,  he  is  supposed  to  have  made  those  observations 
on  human  nature  which  exercised  so  material  an  influence 
over  all  his  proceedings  in  later  life. 

Mr.  Barker  had  not  officiated  for  many  months  in  this 
capacity,  when  the  appearance  of  the  first  omnibus  caused  the 
public  mind  to  go  in  a  new  direction,  and  prevented  a  great 
many  hackney-coaches  from  going  in  any  direction  at  all.  The 
genius  of  Mr.  Barker  at  once  perceived  the  whole  extent  of 
the  injury  that  would  be  eventually  inflicted  on  cab  and  coach 
stands,  and,  by  consequence,  on  watermen  also,  by  the  pro- 
gress of  the  system  of  which  the  first  omnibus  was  a  part. 
He  saw,  too,  the  necessity  of  adopting  some  more  profitable 
profession  ;  and  his  active  mind  at  once  perceived  how  much 
might  be  done  in  the  way  of  enticing  the  youthful  and  unwary, 
and  shoving  the  old  and  helpless,  into  the  wrong  buss,  and 
carrying  them  off,  until,  reduced  to  despair,  they  ransomed 
themselves  by  the  payment  of  sixpence  a-head,  or,  to  adopt 
his  own  figurative  expression  in  all  its  native  beauty,  till 
they  was  rig'larly  done  over,  and  forked  out  the  stumpy." 

An  opportunity  for  realizing  his  fondest  anticipations, 
soon  presented  itself.  Rumors  were  rife  on  the  hackney-coach- 
stands,  that  a  buss  was  building,  to  run  from  Lisson-grove  to 
the  Bank,  down  Oxford-street  and  Holborn  ;  and  the  rapid 
increase  of  busses  on  the  Paddington-road,  encouraged  the 
idea.  Mr.  Barker  secretly  and  cautiously  inquired  m  the 
proper  quarters.  The  report  was  correct ;  the  "  Royal  Wil- 
liam "  was  to  make  it  first  journey  on  the  following  Monday. 
It  was  a  crack  affair  altogether.  An  enterprising  young  cab- 
man, of  established  reputation  as  a  dashing  whip — for  he  had 
compromised  with  the  parents  of  three  scrunched  children, 
and  just  worked  out  "  his  fine,  for  knocking  down  an  old 
lady — was  the  driver  ;  and  the  spirited  proprietor,  knowing 
Mr.  Barker's  qualifications,  appointed  him  to  the  vacant  office 
of  cad  on  the  very  first  application.  The  buss  began  to  run, 
and  Mr.  Barker  entered  into  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  and  on  a 
new  sphere  of  action. 


THE  LAST  CAB'DRIVER,  ETC  491 

To  recapitulate  all  the  improvements  introduced  by  this 
extraordinary  man  into  the  omnibus  system — gradually,  in- 
deed, but  surely — would  occupy  a  far  greater  space  than  we 
are  enabled  to  devote  to  this  imperfect  memoir.  To  him  is 
universally  assigned  the  original  suggestion  of  the  practice 
which  afterwards  became  so  general — of  the  driver  of  a  second 
buss  keeping  constantly  behind  the  first  one,  and  driving  the 
pole  of  his  vehicle  either  into  the  door  of  the  other,  every 
time  it  was  opened,  or  through  the  body  of  any  lady  or  gen- 
tleman who  might  make  an  attempt  to  get  into  it ;  a  humor- 
ous and  pleasant  invention,  exhibiting  all  that  originality  of 
idea,  and  fine  bold  flow  of  spirits,  so  conspicuous  in  every 
action  of  this  great  man. 

Mr.  Barker  had  opponents  of  course  ;  what  man  in  public 
life  has  not  t  But  even  his  worst  enemies  cannot  deny  that 
he  has  taken  more  old  ladies  and  gentlemen  to  Paddington 
who  wanted  to  go  to  the  Bank,  and  more  old  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen to  the  Bank  who  wanted  to  go  to  Paddington,  than 
any  six  men  on  the  road  ;  and  however  much  malevolent 
spirits  may  pretend  to  doubt  the  accuracy  of  the  statement, 
they  well  know  it  to  be  an  established  fact,  that  he  has  forci- 
bly conveyed  a  variety  of  ancient  persons  of  either  sex,  to 
both  places,  who  had  not  the  slightest  or  most  distant  inten- 
tion of  going  anywhere  at  all. 

Mr.  Barker  was  the  identical  cad  who  nobly  distinguished 
himself,  some  time  since,  by  keeping  a  tradesman  on  the  step 
— the  omnibus  going  at  full  speed  all  the  time — till  he  had 
thrashed  him  to  his  entire  satisfaction,  and  finally  throwing 
him  away,  when  he  had  quite  done  with  him.  Mr.  Barker  it 
ought  to  have  been,  who  honestly  indignant  at  being  ignomini- 
ously  ejected  from  a  house  of  public  entertainment,  kicked  the 
landlord  in  the  knee,  and  thereby  caused  his  death.  We  say 
it  ought  to  have  been  Mr.  Barker,  because  the  action  was  not 
a  common  one,  and  could  have  emanated  from  no  ordinary 
mind. 

It  has  now  become  matter  of  history  ;  it  is  recorded  in  the 
Newgate  Calendar  ;  and  we  wish  we  could  attribute  this  piece 
of  daring  heroism  to  Mr.  Barker.  We  regret  being  compelled 
to  state  that  it  was  not  performed  by  him.  Would,  for  the 
family  credit  we  could  add,  that  it  was  achieved  by  his 
brother ! 

It  was  in  the  exercise  of  the  nicer  details  of  his  profession, 
that  Mr,  Barker's  knowledge  of  human  nature  was  beautifully 


492 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ, 


displayed.  He  could  tell  at  a  glance  where  a  passenget 
wanted  to  go  to,  and  would  shout  the  name  of  the  place  ac- 
cordingly, without  the  slightest  reference  to  the  real  destina- 
tion of  the  vehicle.  He  knew  exactly  the  kind  of  old  lady 
that  would  be  too  much  flurried  by  the  process  of  pushing  in 
and  pulling  out  of  the  caravan,  to  discover  where  she  hau 
been  put  down,  until  too  late  ;  had  an  intuitive  perception  of 
what  was  passing  in  a  passenger's  mind  when  he  inwardly  re 
solved  to  pull  that  cad  up  to-morrow  morning ; "  and  nevei 
failed  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  female  servants,  whom  he 
would  place  next  the  door,  and  talk  to  all  the  way. 

Human  judgment  is  never  infallible,  and  it  would  occa- 
sionally happen  that  Mr.  Barker  experimentalized  with  the 
timidity  or  forbearance  of  the  wrong  person,  in  which  case  a 
summons  to  a  Police-office,  was,  on  more  than  one  occasion, 
followed  by  a  committal  to  prison.  It  was  not  in  the  power 
of  trifles  such  as  these,  however,  to  subdue  the  freedom  of 
his  spirit.  As  soon  as  they  passed  away,  lie  resumed  the 
duties  of  his  profession  with  unabated  ardor. 

We  Lave  spoken  of  Mr.  Barker  and  of  the  red-cab-driver, 
in  the  past  tense.  Alas  !  Mr.  Barker  has  again  become  an 
absentee  ;  and  the  class  of  men  to  which  they  both  belonged 
are  fast  disappearmg.  Improvement  has  peered  beneath  the 
aprons  of  our  cabs,  and  penetrated  to  the  very  innermost  re- 
cesses of  our  omnibuses.  Dirt  and  fustian  will  vanish  before 
cleanliness  and  livery.  Slang  will  be  forgotten  when  civility 
becomes  general :  and  that  enlightened,  eloquent,  sage,  and 
profound  body,  the  Magistracy  of  London,  will  be  deprived  of 
half  their  amusement,  and  half  their  occupation. 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 

A  PARLIAMENTARY  SKETCH. 

We  hope  our  readers  will  not  be  alarmed  at  this  rather 
ominous  title.  We  assure  them  that  we  are  not  about  to  be- 
come political,  neither  have  we  the  slightest  intention  of  being 
more  prosy  than  usual — if  we  can  help  it.  It  has  occurred 
to  us  that  a  slight  sketch  of  the  general  aspect  of  "  the  House," 
and  the  crowds  that  resort  to  it  on  the  night  of  an  important 


A  J'-ARLIAMENTARY  SKETCH.  40)3 

debate,  v/ould  be  productive  of  come  amusement :  and  as  we 
liave  made  some  few  calls  at  the  aforesaid  house  in  our  lime 
— have  visited  it  quite  often  enough  for  our  purpose,  and  a 
great  deal  too  often  for  our  own  personal  peace  and  comfort 
— we  have  determined  to  attempt  the  description.  Dismiss- 
ing from  our  minds,  therefore,  all  that  feeling  of  awe,  which 
vague  ideas  of  breaches  of  privilege,  Sergeant-at-Arms,  heavy 
denunciations,  and  still  heavier  fees,  are  calculated  to  awaken, 
we  enter  at  once  into  the  building,  and  upon  our  subject. 

Half-past  four  o'clock — and  at  five  the  mover  of  the  Ad- 
dress will  be  "  on  his  legs,"  as  the  newspapers  announce 
sometimes  by  way  of  novelty,  ?is  if  speakers  were  occasionally 
in.  the  habit  of  standing  on  their  heads.  The  members  are 
pouring  in,  one  after  the  other,  in  shoals.  The  few  spectators 
who  can  obtain  standing-room  in  the  passages,  scrutinize  them 
as  they  pass,  with  the  utmost  interest,  and  the  man  who  can 
identify  a  member  occasionally,  becomes  a  person  of  great  im- 
portance. Every  now  and  then  you  hear  earnest  whispers  of 
''That's  Sir  John  Thomson."  "Which.?  him  with  the  gilt 
order  round  his  neck  'i  "  "  No,  no  ;  that's  one  of  the  messen- 
gers— that  other  with  the  yellow  gloves,  is  Sir  John  Thom- 
son." "  Here's  Mr.  Smith."  "  Lor  !  "  "  Yes,  how  d'ye  do, 
sir  ? — -(He  is  our  new  member) — How  do  you  do,  sir?  "  Mr. 
Smith  stops  :  turns  round  with  an  air  of  enchanting  urbanity 
(for  the  rumor  of  an  intended  dissolution  has  been  very  ex- 
tensively circulated  this  morning) ;  seizes  both  the  hands  of 
his  gratified  constituent,  and,  after  greeting  him  with  the  most 
enthusiastic  warmth,  darts  into  the  lobby,  with  an  extraordi- 
nary display  of  ardor  in  the  public  cause,  leaving  an  immense 
impression  in  his  favor  on  the  mind  of  his  "  fellow-townsman." 

The  arrivals  increase  in  number,  and  the  heat  and  noise 
increase  in  very  unpleasant  proportion.  The  livery  servants 
form  a  complete  lane  on  either  side  of  the  passage,  and  you 
reduce  yourself  into  the  smallest  possible  space  to  avoid 
being  turned  out>^  -You  see  that  stout  man  with  the  hoarse 
voice,  in  the  bli^e^coat,  queer  crowned,  broad-brimmed  hat, 
white  corduroy  breeches,  and  great  boots  who  has  been  talk- 
ing incessantly  for  half  an  hour  past,  and  whose  importance 
has  occasioned  no  small  quantity  of  mirth  among  the  strangers. 
That  is  the  great  conservator  of  the  peace  of  Westminster. 
You  cannot  fail  to  have  remarked  the  grace  with  which  he 
saluted  the  noble  Lord  who  passed  just  now,  or  the  excessive 
dignity  of  his  air,  as  he  expostulates  with  the  crowd.    He  is 


494 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


rather  out  of  temper  now,  in  consequence  of  the  very  irrever- 
ent behavior  of  those  two  young  fellows  behind  him,  who  have 
done  nothing  but  laugh  all  the  time  they  have  been  here. 

"  Will  they  divide  to-night,  do  you  think,  Mr.  ?  "  tim- 
idly inquires  a  little  thin  man  in  the  crowd,  hoping  to  concili- 
ate the  man  of  office. 

How  call  you  ask  such  questions,  sir  ?  "  replies  the  func 
tionary,  in  an  incredibly  loud  key,  and  pettishly  grasping  the 
thick  stick  he  carries  in  his  right  hand.  Pray  do  not,  sin 
I  beg  of  you  ;  pray  do  not,  sir."  The  little  man  looks  re- 
markably out  of  his  element,  ^nd  the  uninitiated  part  of  the 
throng  are  in  positive  convulsions  of  laughter. 

Just  at  this  moment  some  unfortunate  individual  appeal's, 
with  a  very  smirking  air,  at  the  bottom  of  the  long  passage. 
He  has  managed  to  elude  the  vigilance  of  the  special  consta- 
ble down  stairs,  and  is  evidently  congratulating  himself  on 
having  made  his  way  so  far. 

"  Go  back,  sir — you  must  not  come  here,''  shouts  the 
hoarse  one,  with  tremendous  emphasis  of  voice  and  gesture, 
the  moment  the  offender  catches  his  eye. 

The  stranger  pauses. 

"  Do  you  hear,  sir — will  you  go  back  ?  "  continues  the 
official  dignitary,  gently  pushing  the  intruder  some  half- 
dozen  yards. 

Come,  don't  push  me,''  replies  the  stranger  turning 
angrily  round. 
"  I  will,  sir." 
"  You  won't,  sir." 
"  Go  out,  sir." 

"Take  your  hands  off  me,  sir." 

"Go  out  of  the  passage,  sir." 

"You're  a  Jack  in-office,  sir." 

"A  what  ?  "  ejaculates  he  of  the  boots. 

"  A  Jack-in-ofhce,  sir,  and  a  very  insolent  fellow,"  reiter- 
ates the  stranger,  now  completely  in  a  passion. 

Pray  do  not  force  me  to  put  you  out,  sir,"  retorts  the 
other — "  pray  do  not — my  instructions  are  to  keep  this  pas- 
sage clear — it's  the  Speaker's  orders,  sir." 

"  D — n  the  Speaker,  sir !  "  shouts  the  intruder. 
Here,  Wilson  ! — Collins  !  "  gasps  the  officer,  actually 
paralyzed  at  this  insulting  expression,  which  in  his  mind  is 
all  but  high  treason ;  "  take  this  man  out — take  him  out,  I 
say!    How  dare  you,  sir?  "  and  down  goes  the  unfortunate 


A  PARLIAMENTARY  SKETCH. 

man  five  stairs  at  a  time,  turning  round  at  eveiy  stoppage,  to 
come  back  again,  and  denouncing  bitter  vengeance  against 
the  commander-in-chief,  and  all  his  supernumeraries. 

"  Make  way,  gentlemen, — pray  make  way  for  the  Mem- 
bers, I  beg  of  you  !  "  shouts  the  zealous  officer,  turning  back, 
and  preceding  a  v/hole  string  of  the  liberal  and  indepen- 
dent. 

You  see  this  ferocious-looking  gentleman,  with  a  complex- 
ion almost  as  sallow  as  his  linen,  and  whose  large  black 
mustache  would  give  him  the  appearance  of  a  figure  in  a 
hair-dresser's  window,  if  his  countenance  possessed  the 
thought  which  is  communicated  to  those  waxen  caricatures 
of  the  human  face  divine.  He  is  a  militia-officer,  and  the 
most  amusing  person  in  the  House..  Can  anything  be  more 
exquisitely  absurd  than  the  burlesque  grandeur  of  his  air,  as 
he  strides  up  to  the  lobby,  his  eyes  rolling  like  those  of  a 
Turk's  head  in  a  cheap  Dutch  clock  ?  He  never  appears 
without  that  bundle  of  dirty  papers  which  he  carries  under 
his  left  arm,  and  which  are  generally  supposed  to  be  the  mis- 
cellaneous estimates  for  1804,  or  some  equally  important 
documents.  He  is  very  punctual  in  his  attendance  at  the 
House,  and  his  self-satisfied  He-ar-He-ar,"  is  notunfrequent- 
ly  the  signal  for  a  general  titter. 

This  is  the  gentleman  who  once  actually  sent  a  messenger 
up  to  the  Strangers'  gallery  in  the  old  House  of  Commons^  to 
inquire  the  name  of  an  individual  who  was  using  an  eye-glass, 
in  order  that  he  might  complain  to  the  Speaker  that  the  per- 
son in  question  was  quizzing  him  !  On  another  occasion,  he 
is  reported  to  have  repaired  to  .Bellamy's  kitchen — a  refresh- 
ment-room, where  persons  who  are  not  Members  are  admitted 
on  sufferance,  as  it  were — and  perceiving  two  or  three  gentle- 
men at  supper,  who  he  was  aware  were  not  Members,  and  could 
not,  in  that  place,  very  w^ell  resent  his  behavior,  he  indulged 
in  the  pleasantry  of  sitting  with  his  booted  leg  on  the  table 
at  which  they  were  supping !  He  is  generally  harmless^ 
though,  and  always  amusing. 

By  dint  of  patience,  and  some  little  interest  with  our 
friend  the  constable,  we  have  contrived  to  make  our  way  to 
the  Lobby,  and  you  can  just  manage  to  catch  an  occasional 
glimpse  of  the  House,  as  the  door  is  opened  for  the  admission 
of  Members.  It  is  tolerably  full  already,  and  little  groups  of 
Members  are  congregated  together  here,  discussing  the  inter 
esting  topics  of  the  day. 


496 


SKETCHES  B  Y  BOZ 


That  smart-iooking  fellow  in  the  black  coat  with  velvet 
facings  and  cuffs^  who  wears  his  U  Orsay  hat  so  rakishly,  is 
"  Honest  Tom,'"  a  metropolitan  representative  ;  and  the  large 
man  in  the  cioak  'with  the  white  lining — not  the  man  by  the 
pillar  ,  the  other  with  the  light  hair  hanging  over  his  coat- 
pollar  behmd — is  his  colleague.  The  quiet  gentlemanly-look- 
ing man  in  the  blue  curtout,  gray  trousers,  white  neckerchief, 
and  gloves,  whose  closely-buttoned  coat  displays  his  manly 
figure  and  broad  chest  to  great  advantage,  is  a  very  well 
known  character.  He  has  fought  a  great  many  battles  in  his 
time,  and.  conquered  hke  the  heroes  of  old.  with  no  other 
arms  than  those  the  gods  gave  him.  The  old  hard-featured 
man  who  -  tandmg  near  him,  is  really  a  good  specimen  of 
a  class  of  men,  now  nearly  extinct.  He  is  a  county  Member, 
and  has  been  from  time  whereof  the  memory  of  man  is  not  to 
the  contrary.  Look  at  his  loose,  wide,  brown  coat,  with  ca- 
pacious pockets  on  each  side  ;  the  knee-breeches  and  boots, 
the  immensely  long  waistcoat,  and  silver  watch-chain  dangling 
below  it,  the  wide-brimmed  brown  hat,  and  the  white  handker- 
chief tied  in  a  great  bow,  with  straggling  ends  sticking  out 
beyond  his  shirt-frill.  It  is  a  custom  one  seldom  sees  nowa- 
days, and  when  the  few  who  wear  it  have  died  off,  it  will 
be  quite  extinct.  He  can  tell  yoii  long  stories  of  Fox,  Pitt, 
Sheridan,  and  Canning,  and  how  much  better  the  House  was 
managed  in  those  times,  when  they  used  to  get  up  at  eight  or 
nine  o'clock,  except  on  regular  field-days,  of  which  everybody 
was  apprised  beforehand.  He  has  a  great  contempt  for  all 
young  Members  of  Parliament,  and  thinks  it  quite  impossible 
that  a  man  can  say  anything,  worth  hearing,  unless  he  has  sat 
in  the  House  for  fifteen  years  at  least,  without  saying  any- 
thing at  all.  He  is  of  opinion  that  "  that  young  Macaulay  " 
was  a  regular  impostor ;  he  allows,  that  Lord  Stanley  may  do 
something  one  of  these  days,  "  but  he  is  too  young,  sir — too 
young,"  Pie  is  an  excellent  authority  on  points  of  precedent, 
and  when  he  grows  talkative,  after  his  wine,  will  tell  you  how 
Sir  Somebody  Something,  when  he  was  whipper-in  for  the 
Government,  brought  four  men  out  of  their  beds  to  vote  in 
the  majority,  three  of  whom  died  on  their  way  home  again  \ 
how  the  House  once  divided  on  the  question,  that  fresh  can- 
dles be  now  brought  in  ;  how  the  Speaker  was  once  upon  a 
time  left  in  the  chair  by  accident,  at  the  conclusion  of  busi- 
ness, and  was  obliged  to  sit  in  the  house  by  himself  for  three 
hours,  till  some  Member  could  be  knocked  up  and  brought 


A  PA  RL I  A  ME  NT  A  R  Y  SKE  TCIL 


497 


back  again,  to  move  the  adjournment ;  and  a  great  many 
other  anecdotes  of  a  similar  description. 

There  he  stands,  leaning  on  his  stick  ;  looking  at  the 
throng  of  Exquisites  around  him  with  most  profound  con- 
tempt ;  and  conjuring  up,  before  his  mind's  eye,  the  scenes 
he  beheld  in  the  old  House,  in  days  gone  by  when  his  own 
feelings  were  fresher  and  brighter,  and  when,  as  he  imagines, 
wit,  talent,  and  patriotism  flourished  more  brightly  too. 

You  are  curious  to  know  who  that  young  man  in  the  rough 
great-coat  is,  who  has  accosted  every  Member  who  has  en- 
tered the  House  since  w^e  have  been  standing  here.  He  is 
not  a  Member;  he  is  only  an  hereditary  bondsman,"  or,  in 
other  words,  an  Irish  correspondent  of  an  Irish  newspaper, 
who  has  just  procured  his  forty-second  frank  from  a  Member 
whom  he  never  saw  in  his  life  before.  There  he  goes  again 
— another  !  Bless  the  man,  he  has  his  hat  and  pockets  full 
already. 

We  will  try  our  fortune  at  the  Strangers'  gallery,  though 
the  nature  of  the  debate  encourages  very  little  hope  of  suc- 
cess. What  on' earth  are  you  about?  Holding  up  your  or 
der  as  if  it  were  a  talisman  at  whose  command  the  wicket 
would  fly  open  ?  Nonsense.  Just  preserve  the  order  for  an 
autograph,  if  it  be  worth  keeping  at  all,  and  make  your  ap- 
pearance at  the  door  with  your  thumb  and  forefinger  expres- 
sively inserted  in  your  waistcoat-pocket.  This  tall  stout  man 
in  black  is  the  door-keeper.  Any  room  ?  "  "  Not  an  inch 
— two  or  three  dozen  gentlemen  waiting  down  stairs  on  the 
chance  of  somebody's  going  out."  Pull  out  your  purse — "  Are 
you  quite  sure  there's  no  room  ?  " — I'll  go  and  look,"  replies 
the  door-keeper,  with  a  wistful  glance  at  your  purse,  "but 
I'm  afraid  there's  not."  He  returns,  and  with  real  feeling 
assures  you  that  it  is  morally  impossible  to  get  near  the  gal- 
lery. It  is  of  no  use  waiting.  When  you  are  refused  admis- 
sion into  the  Strangers'  gallery  at  the  House  of  Commons, 
under  such  circumstances,  you  may  return  home  thoroughly 
satisfied  that  the  place  must  be  remarkably  full  indeed."^ 

Retracing  our  steps  through  the  long  passage,  descending 
the  stairs,  and  crossing  Palace-Yard,  we  halt  at  a  small  tem- 
porary door-way  adjoining  the  King's  entrance  to  the  House 
of  Lords.  The  order  of  the  serjeant-at  arms  will  admit  you 
into  the  Reporters'  gallery,  from  whence  you  can  obtain  a 

*  This  paper  was  written  before  the  practice  of  exhibiting  Members  of  Parliamenti 
like  other  curiosities,  for  the  small  charge  of  liri  f-r. -crown,  was  abolished. 


SA  ETCHES  B  V  BOZ. 


tolerably  good  view  of  the  House.  Take  care  of  the  stairs, 
they  are  none  of  the  best  ;  through  this  little  wicket — there. 
As  soon  as  your  eyes  become  a  little  used  to  the  mist  of  the 
place,  and  the  glare  of  the  chandeliers  below  you,  you  will 
see  that  some  unimportant  personage  on  the  Ministerial  side 
of  the  Plouse  (to  your  right  hand)  is  speaking,  amidst  a  hum 
of  voices  and  confusion  v;hich  would  rival  Babel,  but  for  the 
circumstance  of  its  being  all  in  one  language. 

The  "hear,  hear,"  which  occasioned  that  laugh,  proceeded 
from  our  warlike  friend  with  the  mustache  :  he  is  sitting  on 
the  back  seat  against  the  wall,  behind  the  Member  who  is 
speaking,  looking  as  ferocious  and  intellectual  as  usual. 
Take  one  look  around  you,  and  retire  !  The  body  of  the 
House  and  the  side  galleries  are  full  of  Members  ;  some,  with 
their  legs  on  the  back  of  the  opposite  seat ;  some,  with  theirs 
stretched  out  to  their  utmost  length  on  the  floor  ;  some  going 
out,  others  coming  in  ;  all  talking,  laughing,  lounging,  cough- 
ing, o-ing,  questioning,  or  groaning ;  presenting  a  conglomer- 
ation of  noise  and  confusion,  to  be  met  with  in  no  other  place 
in  existence,  not  even  excepting  Smithfield  on  a  market-day, 
or  a  cock-pit  in  its  glory. 

But  let  us  not  omit  to  notice  Bellamy's  kitchen,  or,  in 
other  words,  the  refreshment-room,  common  to  both  Houses 
of  Parliament,  where  Ministerialists  and  Oppositionists,  Whigs 
and  Tories,  Radicals,  Peers,  and  Destructives,  strangers  from 
the  gallery,  and  the  more  favored  strangers  from  beloM  the 
bar,  are  alike  at  liberty  to  resort ;  where  divers  honorable 
members  prove  their  perfect  independence  by  remaining  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  a  heavy  debate,  solacing  themselves  with  the 
creature  comforts  ;  and  whence  they  are  summoned  by  whip- 
pers-in,  when  the  House  is  on  the  point  of  dividing;  either  to 
give  their  conscientious  votes"  on  questions  of  which  tliey 
are  conscientiously  innocent  of  knowing  anything  whatever, 
or  to  find  a  vent  for  the  playful  exuberance  of  their  wine-in- 
spired fancies,  in  boisterous  shouts  of  Divide,"  occasionally 
varied  with  a  little  howling,  barking,  crowing,  or  other  ebulli- 
tions of  senatorial  pleasantry. 

When  you  have  ascended  the  narrow  staircase  which,  in 
the  present  temporary  House  of  Commons,  leads  to  the  place 
we  are  describing,  you  will  probably  observe  a  couple  of  rooms 
on  your  right  hand,  with  tables  spread  for  dining.  Neither 
of  these  is  the  kitchen,  although  they  are  both  devoted  to  the 
same  purpose ;  the  kitchen  is  further  on  to  our  left,  up  these 


A  PA  RLIA  MENTA  R  Y  SKE  TC/l. 


499 


half-dozen  stairs.  Before  we  ascend  the  staircase,  however, 
we  must  request  you  to  pause  in  front  of  this  Httle  bar-place 
with  the  sash-windows  ;  and  beg  your  particular  attention  to 
the  steady  honest-looking  old  fellow  in  black,  who  \z  its  sole 
occupant.  Nicholas  (we  do  not  mind  mentioning  the  old  fel 
low's  name,  for  if  Nicholas  be  not  a  public  man,  who  is  ? — ^ 
and  public  men's  names  are  public  property) — Nicholas  ir. 
the  butler  of  Bellamy's,  and  has  held  the  same  place,  dressed 
exactly  in  the  same  manner,  and  said  precisely  the  same 
things,  ever  since  the  oldest  of  its  present  visitors  can  re- 
member. An  excellent  servant  Nicholas  is — an  unrivalled 
compounder  of  salad-dressing — an  admirable  preparer  of 
soda-water  and  lemon — a  special  mixer  of  cold  grog  and 
punch — and,  above  all,  an  unequalled  judge  of  cheese.  If 
the  old  man  have  such  a  thing  as  vanity  in  his  composition, 
this  is  certainly  his  pride  ;  and  if  it  be  possible  to  imagine 
that  anything  in  this  world  could  disturb  his  impenetrable 
calmness,  we  should  say  it  would  be  the  doubting  his  judg^ 
ment  on  this  important  point. 

We  needn't  tell  you  all  this,  however,  for  if  you  have  an 
atom  of  observation,  one  glance  at  his  sleek,  knowing-looking 
head  and  face — his  prim  white  neckerchief,  with  the  wooden 
tie  into  which  it  has  been  regularly  folded  for  twenty  years 
past,  merging  by  imperceptible  degrees  into  a  small-plaited 
shirt-frill — and  his  comfortable-looking  form  encased  in  a 
well-brushed  suit  of  black— would  give  you  a  better  idea  of 
his  real  character  than  a  column  of  our  poor  description  could 
convey. 

Nicholas  is  rather  out  of  his  element  now  ;  he  cannot  see 
the  kitchen  as  he  used  to  in  the  old  House ;  there,  one 
window  of  his  glass-case  opened  into  the  room,  and  then,  for 
the  edification  and  behoof  of  more  juvenile  questioners,  he 
would  stand  for  an  hour  together,  answering  deferential  ques- 
tions about  Sheridan,  and  Percival,  and  Castlereagh,  and 
Heaven  knows  w^io  beside,  with  manifest  delight,  always  in- 
serting  a    Mister  ■  before  every  commoner's  name. 

Nicholas,  like  all  men  of  his  age  and  standing,  has  a  great 
idea  of  the  degeneracy  of  the  times.  He  seldom  expresses 
any  political  opinions,  but  we  managed  to  ascertain,  just 
before  the  passing  oi:  the  Reform  Bil'i,  that  Nicholas  was  a 
thorough  Reformer.  What  was  our  astonishment  to  discover 
shortly  after  the  meeting  of  the  first  reformed  Parliament, 
that  he  was  a  most  inveterate  and  decided  Tory  !   It  was  very 


500 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


odd  :  some  men  change  their  opinions  from  necessity,  others 
from  expediency,  others  from  inspiration  ;  but  that  Nicholas 
should  undergo  any  change  in  any  respect,  was  an  event  we 
had  never  contemplated,  and  should  have  considered  impos- 
sible. His  strong  opinion  against  the  clause  which  em- 
powered the  metropolitan  districts  to  return  Members  to  Par 
liament,  too,  was  perfectly  unaccountable. 

We  discovered  the  secret  at 'last  ;  the  metropolitan  Mem- 
bers always  dined  at  home.  The  rascals  !  As  for  giving  ad- 
ditional Members  to  Ireland,  it  was  even  worse — decidedly 
unconstitutional.  Why,  sir,  an  Irish  Member  would  go  up 
there,  and  eat  more  dinner  than  three  English  Members  put 
together.  He  took  no  wine  ;  drank  table-beer  by  the  half- 
gallon  ;  and  went  home  to  Manchester-buildings,  or  Millbank- 
street,  for  his  whiskey -and  water.  And  what  was  the  conse- 
quence 1  Why  the  concern  lost — actually  lost,  sir — by  his 
patronage.  A  queer  old  fellow  is  Nicholas,  and  as  com- 
pletely a  part  of  the  building  as  the  house  itself.  We  wonder 
he  ever  left  the  old  place,  and  fully  expected  to  see  in  the 
papers,  the  morning  after  the  fire,  a  pathetic  account  of  an 
old  gentleman  in  black,  of  decent  appearance,  who  was  seen 
at  one  of  the  upper  windovv^s  when  the  flames  w^ere  at  their 
height,  and  declared  his  resolute  intention  of  falling  with  the 
floor.  He  must  have  been  got  out  by  force.  How^ever,  he 
was  got  out — here  he  is  again,  looking  as  he  always  does,  as 
if  he  had  been  in  a  bandbox  ever  since  the  last  session. 
There  he  is,  at  his  old  post  every  night,  just  as  we  have  de- 
scribed him  :  and,  as  characters  are  scarce,  and  faithful  ser- 
vants scarcer,  long  may  he  be  there,  say  we  ! 

Now,  when  you  have  taken  your  seat  in  the  kitchen,  and 
duly  noticed  the  large  fire  and  roasting-jack  at  one  end  of  the 
room — the  little  table  for  washing  glasses  and  draining  jugs 
at  the  other — the  clock  over  the  window  opposite  St.  Marga- 
ret's Church — the  deal  tables  and  wax  candles — the  damask 
table-cloths  and  bare  floor — the  plate  and  china  on  the  tables, 
and  Ihe  gridiron  on  the  fire  ;  and  a  few  other  anomalies  pe- 
culiar to  the  place — we  will  point  out  to  your  notice  two  or 
three  of  the  people  present,  whose  station  or  absurdities  ren- 
der them  the  most  worthy  of  remark. 

It  \z  half-past  twelve  o'clock,  and  as  the  division  is  not 
expected  for  an  hour  or  two,  a  few  Members  are  lounging 
away  the  time  here  in  preference  to  standing  at  the  bar  of  the 
House,  or  sleeping  in  one  of  the  side  galleries.    That  singu- 


A  PARLIAMENTARY  SKETCH. 


5°^ 


larly  awkward  and  ungainly-looking  man,  in  the  brownish- 
white  hat,  with  the  straggling  black  trousers  which  reach 
about  half-way  down  the  leg  of  his  boots,  who  is  leaning 
against  the  meat-screen,  apparently  deluding  himself  into  the 
belief  that  he  is  thinking  about  something,  is  a  splendid  sam 
pie  of  a  Member  of  the  House  of  Commons  concentrating  in 
his  own  person  the  wisdom  of  a  constituency.  Observe  the 
wig,  of  a  dark  hue  but  indescribable  color,  for  if  it  be  natu- 
rally brown,  it  has  acquired  a  black  tint  by  long  service,  and 
if  it  be  naturally  black,  the  same  cause  has  imparted  to  it  a 
tinge  of  rusty  browar ;  and  remark  how  very  materially  the 
great  blinker-like  spectacles  assist  the  expression  of  that 
most  intelligent  face.  Seriously  speaking,  did  you  ever  see 
a  countenance  so  expressive  of  the  most  hopeless  extreme  of 
heavy  dullness,  or  behold  a  form  so  strangely  put  together  ? 
He  is  no  great  speaker  :  but  when  he  does  address  the  House 
the  effect  is  absolutely  irresistible. 

The  small  gentleman  wdth  the  sharp  nose,  who  has  just  sa- 
luted him,  is  a  Member  of  Parliament,  an  ex-Alderman,  and 
a  sort  of  amateur  fireman.  He,  and  the  celebrated  fireman's 
dog,  were  observed  to  be  remarkably  active  at  the  conflagra- 
tion of  the  two  Houses  of  Parliament — they  both  ran  up  and 
down,  and  in  and  out,  getting  under  people's  feet,  and  into 
everybody's  w^ay,  fully  impressed  with  the  belief  that  they 
were  doing  a  great  deal  of  good,  and  barking  tremendously. 
The  dog  went  quietly  back  to  his  kennel  wdth  the  engine,  but 
the  gentleman  kept  up  such  an  incessant  noise  for  some  wrecks 
after  the  occurrence,  that  he  became  a  positive  nuisance.  As 
no  more  parliamentary  fires  have  occurred,  however,  and  as  he 
has  consequently  had  no  more  opportunities  of  writing  to  the 
newspapers  to  relate  how,  by  way  of  preserving  pictures  he 
cut  them  out  of  their  frames,  and  performed  other  great  na- 
tional services,  he  has  gradually  relapsed  into  his  old  state  of 
calmness. 

That  female  in  black — not  the  one  whom  the  Lord's-Day- 
Bill  Baronet  has  just  chucked  under  the  chin  ;  the  shorter  of 
the  two — is  Jane  : "  the  Hebe  of  Bellamy's.  Jane  is  as 
great  a  character  as  Nicholas,  in  her  way.  Her  leading  fea- 
tures  are  a  thorough  contempt  for  the  great  majority  of  her 
visitors  ;  her  predominant  quality,  love  of  admiration,  as  you 
cannot  fail  to  observe,  if  you  mark  the  glee  with  which  she 
listens  to  something  the  young  Member  near  her  mutters 
somewhat  unintelligibly  in  her  ear  (for  his  speech  is  rather 


502  ^  .  SKETCHES  BY  BGZ. 

thick  from  some  cause  or  other),  and  how  playfully  she  digs 
the  handle  ol  a  fork  into  the  arm  with  which  he  detains  her, 
by  way  of  reply. 

Jane  is  no  bad  hand  at  repartees,  and  showers  them 
about,  with  a  degree  of  liberality  and  total  absence  of  reserve 
or  constraint,  which  occasionally  excites  no  small  amazement 
in  the  minds  of  strangers.  She  cuts  jokes  with  Nicholas,  too. 
but  looks  up  to  him  with  a  great  deal  of  respect :  the  immov- 
able stolidity  with  which  Nicholas  receives  the  aforesaid 
jokes,  and  looks  on,  at  certain  pastoral  friskings  and  romp- 
ings  (Jane's  only  recreations,  and  they  are  very  innocent  too) 
which  occasionally  take  place  in  the  passage,  is  not  the  least 
amusing  part  of  his  character. 

The  two  persons  who  are  seated  at  the  table  in  the  cor- 
ner, at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  have  been  constant  guests 
here,  for  many  years  past ;  and  one  of  them  has  feasted 
within  these  walls,  many  a  time,  with  the  most  brilliant  char- 
acters of  a  brilliant  period.  He  has  gone  up  to  the  other 
House  since  then  ;  the  greater  part  of  his  boon  companions 
have  shared  Yorick's  fate,  and  his  visits  to  Bellamy's  are 
comparatively  few. 

If  he  really  be  eating  his  supper  now,  at  what  hour  can 
he  poss'bly  have  dined  !  A  second  solid  mass  of  rump-steak 
has  disappeared,  and  he  eat  the  first  in  four  minutes  and 
three  quarters,  by  the  clock  over  the  window.  Was  there 
ever  such  a  personification  of  Falstaff !  Mark  the  air  with 
which  he  gloats  over  that  Stilton,  as  he  removes  the  napkin 
which  has  been  placed  beneath  his  chin  to  catch  the  super- 
fluous gravy  of  the  steak,  and  with  what  gusto  he  imbibes  the 
porter  which  has  been  fetched,  expressly  for  him,  in  the  pew- 
ter pot.  Listen  to  the  hoarse  sound  of  that  voice,  kept  down 
aG  it  is  by  layers  of  solids,  and  deep  draughts  of  rich  wine, 
and  tell  us  if  you  ever  saw  such  a  perfect  picture  of  a  regular 
goiinnand ;  and  whether  he  is  not  exactly  the  man  whom  you 
would  pitch  upon  as  having  been  the  partner  of  Sheridan's 
parliamentary  carouses,  the  volunteer  driver  of  the  hackney- 
coach  that  took  him  home,  and  the  involuntary  upsetter  of 
the  whole  party  ? 

What  an  amusing  contrast  between  his  voice  and  appear- 
ance, and  that  of  the  spare,  squeaking  old  man,  who  sits  at 
the  same  table,  and  who,  elevating  a  little  cracked  bantam 
sort  pf  voice  to  its  highest  pitch,  invokes  damnation  upon  his 
own  eyes  or  somebody  else's  at  the  commencement  of  every 


PUBLIC  DINNERS. 


sentence  he  utters.    "  The  Captain,"  as  they  call  him,  is  a 
very  old  frequenter  of  Bellamy's ;  much  addicted  to  stopping 
after  the  House  is  up  "  (an  inexpiable  crime  in  Jane's  eyes), 
and  a  complete  walking  reservoir  of  spirits  and  water. 

The  old  Peer — or  rather,  the  old  man — for  his  peerage  is 
of  comparatively  recent  date — has  a  huge  tumbler  o,^  hot 
punch  brought  to  him  ;  and  the  other  damns  and  drinks,  and 
drinks  and  damns,  and  smokes.  Members  arrive  every  mo- 
ment in  a  great  bustle  to  report  that  The  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer's  up,"  and  to  get  glasses  of  brandy-and-water  to 
sustain  them  during  the  division  ;  people  who  have  ordered 
supper,  countermand  it,  and  prepare  to  go  down  stairs,  when 
suddenly  a  bell  is  heard  to  ring  with  tremendous  violence, 
and  a  cry  of  "  Di-vi-sion  !  "  is  heard  in  the  passage.  This  is 
enough  ;  away  rush  the  members  pell-mell.  The  room  is 
cleared  in  an  instant ;  the  noise  rapidly  dies  away  ;  you  hear 
the  creaking  of  the  last  boot  on  the  last  stair,  and  are  left 
alone  with  the  leviathan  of  rump-steaks. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

PUBLIC  DINNERS. 

All  public  dinners  in  London,  from  the  Lord  Mayor's 
annual  banquet  at  Guild-hall,  to  the  Chimney-sweepers'  anni- 
versary at  White  Conduit  House  ;  from  the  Goldsmiths'  to 
the  Butchers',  from  the  Sheriffs'  to  the  Licensed  Victuallers' ; 
are  amusing  scenes.  Of  all  entertainments  of  this  descrip- 
tion, however,  we  think  the  annual  dinner  of  some  public 
charity  is  the  most  amusing.  At  a  Company's  dinner,  the 
people  are  nearly  all  alike — regular  old  stagers,  who  make  it 
a  matter  of  business,  and  a  thing  not  to  be  laughed  at.  At  a 
political  dinner,  everybody  is  disagreeable,  and  inclined  to 
speechify — much  the  same  thing,  by  the  bye  ;  but  at  a  charity 
dinner  you  see  people  of  all  sorts,  kinds,  and  descriptions. 
The  wine  may  not  be  remarkably  special,  to  be  sure,  and  we 
have  heard  some  hard-hearted  monsters  grumble  at  the  col- 
lection ;  but  we  really  think  the  amusement  to  be  derived 
from  the  occasion,  sufficient  to  counterbalance,  even  these 
disadvantages. 
U 


504 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


Let  us  suppose  you  are  induced  to  attend  a  dinner  of  this 
description — "  Indigent  Orphans'  Friends'  Benevolent  Insti- 
tution," we  think  it  is.  The  name  of  the  charity  is  a  line  or 
two  longer,  but  never  mind  the  rest.  You  have  a  distinct 
recollection,  however,  that  you  purchased  a  ticket  at  the 
solicitation  of  some  charitable  friend  :  and  you  deposit  your- 
self in  a  hackney-coach,  the  driver  of  which — no  doubt  that 
you  may  do  the  thing  in  style — turns  a  deaf  ear  to  your  ear- 
nest entreaties  to  be  set  down  at  the  corner  of  Great  Queen- 
street,  and  persists  in  carrying  you  to  the  very  door  of  the 
Freemasons',  round  which  a  crowd  of  people  are  assembled 
to  witness  the  entrance  of  the  indigent  orphans'  friends.  You 
hear  great  speculations  as  you  pay  the  fare,  on  the  possibility 
of  your  being  the  noble  Lord  who  is  announced  to  fill  the 
chair  on  the  occasion,  and  are  highly  gratified  to  hear  it  event- 
ually decided  that  you  are  only  a  wocalist." 

The  first  thing  that  strikes  you,  on  your  entrance,  is  the 
astonishing  importance  of  the  committee.  You  observe  a 
door  on  the  first  landing,  carefully  guarded  by  two  waiters,  in 
and  out  of  which  stout  gentlemen  with  very  red  faces  keep 
running,  with  a  degree  of  speed  highly  unbecoming  the  gravity 
of  persons  of  their  years  and  corpulency.  You  pause,  quite 
alarmed  at  the  bustle,  and  thinking,  in  your  innocence,  that 
two  or  three  people  must  have  been  carried  out  of  the  dining- 
room  in  fits,  at  least.  You  are  immediately  undeceived  by 
the  waiter — "  Up  stairs,  if  you  please,  sir  ;  this  is  the  conv 
mittee-room."  Up  stairs  you  go,  accordingly  ;  wondering,  as 
you  mount,  what  the  duties  of  the  committee  can  be,  and 
whether  they  ever  do  anything  beyond  confusing  each  other, 
and  running  over  the  waiters. 

Having  deposited  your  hat  and  cloak,  and  received  a  re- 
markably small  scrap  of  pasteboard  in  exchange  (which,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  you  lose,  before  you  require  it  again),  you 
enter  the  hall,  down  wdiich  there  are  three  long  tables  for  the 
less  distinguished  guests,  with  a  cross  table  on  a  raised  plat- 
form at  the  upper  end  for  the  reception  of  the  very  particular 
friends  of  the  indigent  orphans.  Being  fortunate  enough  to 
find  a  plate  without  anybody's  card  in  it,  you  wisely  seat  your- 
self at  once,  and  have  a  little  leisure  to  look  about  you. 
Waiters,  with  wine-baskets  in  their  hands,  are  placing  decan- 
ters of  sherry  down  the  tables,  at  very  respectable  distances  j 
melancholy-looking  salt-cellars,  and  decayed  vinegar-cruets, 
which  might  have  belonged  to  the  parents  of  the  indigent 


orphans  in  their  time,  are  scattered  at  distant  intervals  on  the 
cloth  ;  and  the  knives  and  forks  look  as  if  they  had  done 
duty  at  every  public  dinner  in  London  snice  the  accession  of 
George  the  Plrst.  The  musicians  are  scraping  and  grating 
and  screwing  tremendously — playing  no  notes  but  notes  of 
preparation  ;  and  several  gentlemen  are  gliding  along  the 
sides  of  the  tables,  looking  into  plate  after  plate  with  frantic 
eagerness,  the  expression  of  their  countenances  growing  more 
and  more  dismal  as  they  meet  with  everybody's  card  but  theii 
own. 

You  turn  round  to  take  a  look  at  the  table  behind  you, 
and — not  being  in  the  habit  of  attending  public  dinners — are 
somewhat  struck  by  the  appearance  of  the  party  on  which 
your  eyes  rest.  One  of  its  principal  members  appears  to  be 
a  little  man,  with  a  long  and  rather  inflamed  face,  and  gray 
hair  brushed  bolt  upright  in  front ;  he  wears  a  wisp  of  black 
silk  round  his  neck,  without  any  stiffener,  as  an  apology  for 
a  neckerchief,  and  is  addressed  by  his  com:  nions  by  the 
familiar  appellation  of  "  Fitz,"  or  some  such  monosyllable. 
Near  him  is  a  stout  man  in  a  white  neckerchief  and  buff  waist- 
coat, with  shining  dark  hair,  cut  very  short  in  front,  and  a 
great  round  healthy-looking  face,  on  which  he  studiously  pre- 
serves a  half  sentimental  simper.  Next  him,  again,  is  a  large- 
headed  man,  with  black  hair  and  bushy  whiskers  ;  and  oppo- 
site them  are  two  or  three  others,  one  of  whom  is  a  little 
round  faced  person,  in  a  dress-stock  and  blue  under  waist- 
coat. There  is  something  peculiar  in  their  air  and  manner, 
though  you  could  hardly  describe  what  it  is  ;  you  cannot  divest 
yourself  of  the  idea  that  they  have  come  for  some  other  pur- 
pose than  mere  eating  and  drinking.  You  have  no  time  to 
debate  the  matter,  however,  for  the  waiters  (who  have  been 
arranged  in  lines  down  the  room,  placing  the.  dishes  on  table) 
retire  to  the  lower  end ;  the  dark  man  in  the  blue  coat  and 
bright  buttons,  who  has  the  direction  of  the  music,  looks  up  to 
the  gallery,  and  calls  out  "band  "  in  a  very  loud  voice  ;  out 
burst  the  orchestra,  up  rise  the  visitors,  in  march  fourteen 
stewards,  each  with  a  long  wand  in  his  hand,  like  the  evil 
genius  in  a  pantomime  ,  then  the  chairman,  then  the  titled 
visitors  ;  they  all  make  their  way  up  the  room,  as  fast  as  they 
can,  bowing,  and  smiling,  and  smirking,  and  looking  remark- 
ably amiable.  The  applause  ceases,  grace  is  said,  the  clatter 
of  plates  and  dishes  begins  ;  and  every  one  appears  highly 
gratified,  either  with  the  presence  of  the  distinguished  visitors, 
or  the  commencement  of  the  anxiously-expected  dinner. 


5o6  SKE  TCHES  B  V  BOZ. 

As  to  the  dinner  itself — the  mere  dinner — it  goes  off  much 
the  same  everywhere.  Tureens  of  soup  are  emptied  with 
a^'ful  rapidity — waiters  take  plates  of  turbot  away,  to  get  lob- 
ster-sauce, and  bring  back  plaltes  of  lobster-sauce  without 
turbot  ;  people  who  can  carve  poultry,  are  great  fools  if  they 
own  it,  and  people  who  can't  have  no  wish  to  learn.  The 
knives  and  forks  form  a  pleasing  accompaniment  to  Auber's 
music,  and  Auber's  music  would  form  a  pleasing  accompani- 
ment to  the  dinner,  if  you  could  hear  anything  besides  the 
cymbals.  The  substantials  disappear — moulds  of  jelly  vanish 
like  lightning — hearty  eaters  wipe  their  foreheads,  and  appear 
rather  overcome  by  their  recent  exertions — people  who  have 
looked  very  cross  hitherto,  become  remarkably  bland,  and 
ask  you  to  take  wdne  in  the  most  friendly  manner  possible — 
old  gentlemen  direct  your  attention  to  the  ladies'  gallery,  and 
take  great  pains  to  impress  you  with  the  fact  that  the  charity 
is  always  peculiarly  favored  in  this  respect — every  one  appears 
disposed  to  become  talkative — and  the  hum  of  conversation 
is  loud  and  general. 

''Pray,  silence,  gentlemen,  if  you  please,  for  JVo7i  nohis 
shouts  the  toast-master  with  stentorian  lungs — a  toast-master's 
shirt-front,  waistcoat,  and  neckerchief,  by  the  bye,  always  ex- 
hibit three  distinct  shades  of  cloudy-white. — "Pray,  silence 
gentlemen,  for  Non  nobis  !  "  The  singers,  whom  you  discover 
to  be  no  other  than  the  very  party  that  excited  your  curiosity 
at  first,  after  ''  pitching  "  their  voices  immediately  begin  too- 
too\T\g  most  dismally,  on  which  the  regular  old  stagers  burst 
into  occasional  cries  of — ''  Sh — Sh — waiters  ! — Silence,  waiters 
— stand  still,  waiters — keep  back,  waiters,"  and  other  exor- 
cisms, delivered  in  a  tone  of  indignant  remonstrance.  The 
grace  is  soon  concluded,  and  the  company  resume  their  seats. 
The  uninitiated  portion  of  the  guests  applaud  Non  7iohis  as 
vehemently  as  if  it  were  a  capital  comic  song,  greatly  to  the 
scandal  and  indignation  of  the  regular  diners,  who  immediately 
attempt  to  quell  this  sacrilegious  approbation,  by  cries  of 
"  Hush,  hush  !  "  whereupon  the  others,  mistaking  these  sounds 
for  hisses,  applaud  more  tuniultuously  than  before,  and,  by 
way  of  placing  their  approval  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt, 
shout    Eiicore !'''  most  vociferously. 

The  moment  the  noise  ceases,  up  starts  the  toast-master : 
— ''  Gentlemen,  charge  your  glasses,  if  you  please  !  "  Decan- 
ers  having  been  handed  about,  and  glasses  filled,  the  toast- 
master  proceeds,  in  a  regular  ascending  scale  : — "  Gentlemen 


P  PUBLIC  DINNERS.  ^oy 

— -air —  you — ail  charged  ?  Pray — silence  —  f  eatlemen — for 
— the  cha — i — r  !  "  The  chairman  rises,  and,  after  stating 
that  he  feels  it  quite  unnecessary  to  preface  the  toast  he  is 
about  to  propose,  with  any  observations  whatever,  wanders 
into  a  maze  of  sentences,  and  flounders  about  in  the  most 
extraordinary  manner,  presenting  a  lamentable  spectacle  of 
mystified  humanity,  until  he  arrives  at  the  words,  "  constitu- 
tional sovereign  of  these  realms,"  at  which  elderly  gentlemen 
exclaim  Bravo  !  "  and  liammer  the  table  tremendously  with 
their  knife-handles.  ''Under  any  circumstances,  it  would  give 
him  the  greatest  pride,  it  would  give  him  the  greatest  pleas- 
ure—  he  might  almost  say,  it  w^ould  afford  him  satisfaction 
[cheers]  to  propose  that  toast.  What  must  be  his  feelings, 
then,  when  he  has  the  gratification  of  announcing,  that  he  has 
received  her  Majesty's  commands  to  apply  to  the  Treasurer 
of  her  Majesty's  Household,  for  her  Majesty's  annual  dona- 
tion of  25/.  in  aid  of  the  funds  of  this  charity ! "  This  an- 
nouncement (which  has  been  regularly  made  by  every  chair- 
man, since  the  first  foundation  of  the  charity,  forty-tv/o  years 
ago)  calls  forth  the  most  vociferous  applause ;  the  toast  is 
drunk  with  a  great  deal  of  cheering  and  knocking  ;  and  God 
save  the  Queen  "  is  sung  by  the  ''professional  gentlemen 
the  unprofessional  gentlemen  joining  in  the  chorus,  and  giving 
the  national  anthem  an  effect  which  the  newspapers,  v/ith 
great  justice,  describe  as  "  perfectly  electrical." 

The  other  "  loyal  and  ]:)atnotic  "  toasts  ha\'ing  been  drunk 
with  all  due  enthusiasm,  a  comic  song  having  been  well  sung 
by  the  gentleman  with  the  small  neckerchief,  and  a  senti- 
mental one  by  the  second  of  the  party,  we  come  to  the  most 
important  toast  of  the  evening — "  Prosperity  to  the  charity." 
Here  again  we  are  compelled  to  adopt  newspaper  phraseology, 
and  to  express  our  regret  at  being  "  precluded  from  giving 
even  the  substance  of  the  noble  lord's  observations."  Suffice 
it  to  say,  that  the  speech,  which  is  somewhat  of  the  longest, 
is  rapturously  received ;  and  the  toast  having  been  drunk,  the 
stewards  (looking  more  important  than  ever)  leave  the  room, 
and  presently  return,  heading  a  procession  of  indigent  or- 
phans, boys  and  girls,  who  walk  round  the  room,  curtseying, 
and  bowing,  and  treading  on  each  other's  heels,  and  looking 
very  much  as  if  they  would  like  a  glass  of  wine  apiece,  to  the 
high  gratification  of  the  company  generally,  and  especially  of 
the  lady  patronesses  in  the  gMery-  Exetint  children,  and  re- 
enter stewards,  each  with  a  blue  plate     his  hand.  The  band 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


plays  a  lively  air ;  the  majority  of  the  company  put  theii 
hands  in  their  pockets  and  look  rather  serious  ;  and  the  noise 
of  sovereigns,  rattling  on  crockery,  is  heard  from  all  parts  of 
the  room. 

After  a  short  interval,  occupied  in  singing  and  toasting, 
the  secretary  puts  on  his  spectacles,  and  proceeds  to  read  the 
leport  and  list  of  subscriptions,  the  latter  being  listened  to 
with  great  attention.  ''Mr.  Smith,  one  guinea — Mr.  Tomp- 
kins, one  guinea — Mr.  Wilson,  one  guinea — Mr.  Hickson,  one 
guinea — Mr.  Nixon,  one  guinea — Mr.  Charles  Nixon,  one 
guinea — [hear,  hear  !] — Mr.  James  Nixon,  one  guinea — Mr. 
Thomas  Nixon,  one  pound  one  [tremendous  api^lause].  Lord 
Fitz  Binkle,  the  chairman  of  the  day,  in  addition  to  an  annual 
donation  of  fifteen  pounds — thirty  guineas  [prolonged  knock- 
ing :  several  gentlemen  knock  the  stems  off  their  wine-glasses, 
in  the  vehemence  of  their  approbation].  Lady  Fitz  Binkle, 
in  addition  to  an  annual  donation  of  ten  pound  —  twenty 
pound  "  [protracted  knocking  and  shouts  of  "  Bravo  !  "]  The 
list  being  at  length  concluded,  the  chairman  rises,  and  pro- 
poses the  health  of  the  secretary,  than  whom  he  knows  no 
more  zealous  or  estimable  individual.  The  secretary,  in  re- 
turning thanks,  observes  that  he  knows  no  more  excellent  in 
dividual  than  the  chairman — except  the  senior  officer  of  the 
charity,  whose  health  he  begs  to  propose.  The  senior  officer, 
in  returning  thanks,  observes  that  he  knows  no  more  worthy 
man  than  the  secretary  —  except  Mr.  Walker,  the  auditor, 
whose  health  begs  to  propose.  Mr.  Walker,  in  returning 
thanks,  discovers  some  other  estimable  individual,  to  whom 
alone  the  senior  officer  is  inferior — and  so  they  go  on  toasting 
and  lauding  and  thanking  :  the  only  other  toast  of  importance 
being  "^he  Lady-  Patronesses  now  ^^resent !  "  on  which  all 
the  gentlemen  turn  their  faces  towards  the  ladies'  gallery, 
shouting  tremendously  ;  and  little  priggish  men,  who  have 
imbibed  more  wine  than  usual,  kiss  their  hands  and  exhibit 
distressing  contortions  of  visage. 

We  have  protracted  our  dinner  to  so  a  great  a  length,  that 
we  have  hardly  time  to  add  one  word  by  way  of  grace.  We 
can  only  entreat  our  readers  not  to  imagine,  because  we  hai^e 
attempted  to  extract  some  amusement  from  a  charity  dinner, 
that  we  are  at  all  disposed  to  underrate,  either  the  excellence 
of  the  benevolent  institutions  with  which  London  abounds,  ol 
the  estimable  motives  of  those  who  support  them. 


I'HE  FIRST  OF  MA  K 


509 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE    FIRST    OF  MAY, 

**  Now  ladies,  up  in  the  sky-parlor:  only  once  a  year,  if  you  please!  " 

Young  Lady  with  Brass  Ladle. 
*' Sweep — sweep — sw-e-ep  !  " 

Illegal  Watchword. 

The  first  of  May  !  There  is  a  merry  freshness  in  the 
sound,  calling  to  our  minds  a  thousand  thoughts  of  all  that  is 
pleasant  in  nature  and  beautiful  in  her  most  delightful  form. 
What  man  is  there,  over  whose  mind  a  bright  spring  morning 
does  not  exercise  a  magic  influence — carrying  him  back  to 
the  days  of  his  childish  sports,  and  conjuring  up  before  him 
the  old  green  field  with  its  gently-waving  trees,  where  the 
birds  sang  as  he  has  never  heard  them  since — where  the  but- 
terfly fluttered  far  more  gayly  than  he  ever  sees  him  now,  in 
all  his  ramblings — where  the  sky  seemed  bluer,  and  the  sun 
shone  more  brightly — where  the  air  blew  more  freshly  over 
greener  grass,  and  sweeter-smelling  flowers — where  everything 
wore  a  richer  and  more  brilliant  hue  than  it  is  ever  dressed  in 
now !  Such  are  the  deep  feelings  of  childhood,  and  such  are 
the  impressions  which  every  lovely  object  stamps  upon  its 
heart !  The  hardy  traveller  wanders  through  the  maze  of 
thick  and  pathless  woods,  where  the  sun's  rays  never  shone, 
and  heaven's  pure  air  never  played  ;  he  stands  on  the  brink 
of  the  roaring  waterfall,  and,  giddy  and  bewildered,  watches 
the  foaming  mass  as  it  leaps  from  stone  to  stone,  and  from 
crag  to  crag  ;  he  lingers  in  the  fertile  plains  of  a  land  of  per- 
petual sunshine,  and  revels  in  the  luxury  of  their  balmy  breath. 
But  what  are  the  deep  forests,  or  the  thundering  waters,  or 
the  richest  landscapes  that  bounteous  nature  ever  spread,  to 
charm  the  eyes,  and  captivate  the  senses  of  man,  compared 
Vv^th  the  recollection  of  the  old  scenes  of  his  early  youth  ? 
Magic  scenes  indeed  ;  for  the  fancies  of  childhood  dressed 
them  in  colors  brighter  than  the  rainbow,  and  almost  as 
fleeting. 

In  former  times,  spring  brought  with  it  not  only  such  as- 
•  sociations  as  these,  connected  with  the  past,  but  sports  and 


SKETCHES  BY  BQZ 


games  for  the  present — merry  dances  round  rustic  pillars, 
adorned  with  emblems  of  the  season,  and  reared  in  honor  of 
its  coming.  Where  are  they  now  !  Pillars  we  have,  but  they 
are  no  longer  rustic  ones  ;  and  as  to  dancers,  they  are  used 
to  rooms,  and  lights,  and  would  not  show  well  in  the  open 
air.  Think  of  the  immorality,  too  !  What  would  your  sab- 
bath enthusiasts  say,  to  an  aristocratic  ring  encircling  tl:e 
Duke  of  York's  column  in  Carlton  terrace — a  grand  poussette 
of  the  middle  classes,  round  Alderman  Waithman's  monument 
in  Fleet-street, — or  a  general  hands-four-rbund  of  ten-pound 
householders,  at  the  foot  of  the  Obelisk  in  St.  George's-fields  ? 
Alas  !  romance  can  make  no  head  against  the  riot  act ;  and 
pastoral  simplicity  is  not  understood  by  the  police. 

Well ;  many  years  ago  we  began  to  be  a  steady  and 
matter-of-fact  sort  of  people,  and  dancing  in  spring  being 
beneath  our  dignity,  w^e  gave  it  up,  and  in  course  of  time  it 
descended  to  the  sweeps — a  fall  certainly,  because,  though 
sweeps  are  very  good  fellows  in  their  way,  and  moreover 
very  useful  in  a  civilized  community,  they  are  not  exactly  the 
sort  of  people  to  give  the  tone  to  the  little  elegances  of 
society.  The  sweeps,  however,  got  the  dancing  to  themselves, 
and  they  kept  it  up,  and  handed  it  dowqi.  This  \vas  a  severe 
blow  to  the  romance  of  spring  time,  but,  it  did  not  entirely 
destroy  it,  either ;  for  a  portion  of  it  descended  to  the  sweeps 
with  the  dancing,  and  rendered  them  objects  of  great  interest. 
A  mystery  hung  over  the  sweeps  in  those  days.  Legends 
were  in  existence  of  wealthy  gentlemen  who  had  lost  children, 
and  who,  after  many  years  of  sorrow  and  suffering,  had  found 
them  in  the  character  of  svv^eeps.  Stories  were  related  of  a 
young  boy  wdio,  having  been  stolen  from  his  parents  in  his 
infancy,  and  devoted  to  the  occupation  of  chimney-sweeping, 
was  sent,  in  the  course  of  his  professional  career,  to  sweep 
the  chimney  of  his  mother's  bedroom  ;  and  how,  being  hot 
and  tired  when  he  came  out  of  the  chimney,  he  got  into  the 
bed  he  had  so  often  slept  in  as  an  infant,  and  was  discovered" 
and  recognized  therein  by  his  mother,  who  once  every  yeai 
of  her  life,  thereafter,  requested  the  pleasure  of  the  company 
of  every  London  sweep,  at  half-past  one  o'clock,  to  roast  beef, 
plum-pudding,  porter,  and  sixpence. 

Such  stories  as  these,  and  there  were  many  such,  threw 
an  air  of  mystery  round  the  sweeps,  and  produced  for  them 
some  of  those  good  effects  which  animals  derive  from  the 
doctrine  of  the  transmigration  of  souls.    No  one  (except  the 


THE  FIRST  OF  MA  V. 


masters)  thought  of  ill-treating  a  sweep,  because  no  one 
knew  who  he  might  be,  or  what  nobleman's  or  gentleman's 
son  he  might  turn  out.  Chimney-sweeping  was,  by  many  be- 
lievers in  the  marvellous,  considered  as  a  sort  of  probationary 
term,  at  an  earlier  or  later  period  of  which,  divers  young 
noblemen  were  to  come  into  possession  of  their  rank  and 
titles  :  and  the  profession  was  held  by  them  in  great  respect 
accordingly. 

We  remember,  in  our  young  days,  a  little  sweep  about  our 
own  age,  with  curly  hair  and  white  teeth,  whom  we  devoutly 
and  sincerely  believed  to  be  the  lost  son  and  heir  of  some 
illustrious  personage — an  impression  which  was  resolved  into 
an  unchangeable  conviction  on  our  infant  mind,  by  the  sub- 
ject of  our  speculations  informing  us,  one  day,  in  reply  to 
our  question,  propounded  a  few  moments  before  his  ascent  to 
the  summit  of  the  kitchen  chimney,  "  that  he  believed  he'd 
been  born  in  the  vurkis,  but  he'd  never  know'd  his  father." 
We  felt  certain,  from  that, time  forth,  that  he  would  one  day 
be  owned  by  a  lord  ;  and  we  never  heard  the  church-bells 
ring,  or  saw  a  flag  hoisted  in  the  neighborhood,  vvdthout 
thinking  that  the  happy  event  had  at  last  occurred,  and  that 
his  long-lost  parent  had  arrived  in  a  coach  and  six,  to  take 
him  home  to  Grosvenor-square.  He  never  came,  however  ; 
and,  at  the  present  moment,  the  young  gentleman  in  question 
is  settled  down  as  a  master  svv^eep  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Battle  bridge,  his  distinguishing  characteristics  being  a  de- 
cided antipathy  to  washing  hmiself,  and  the  possession  of  a 
pair  of  legs  very  inadequate  to  the  support  of  his  unwieldy 
and  corpulent  body. 

The  romance  of  spring  having  gone  out  before  our  time, 
we  were  fain  to  console  ourselves  as  we  best  could  with  the 
u.icertainty  that  enveloped  the  birth  and  parentage  of  its 
attendant  dancers,  the  sweeps  ;  and  we  did  console  ourselves 
with  it,  for  many  years.  But,  even  this  wretched  source  of 
comfort  received  a  shock  from  which  it  has  never  recovered 
—  a  shock  which  has  been  in  reality  its  death-blow.  We 
could  not  disguise  from  ourselves  the  fact  that  whole  families 
of  sweeps  were  regularly  born  of  sweeps,  in  the  rural  districts 
of  Somers  Town  and  Camden  Town — that  the  eldest  son 
succeeded  to  the  father's  business,  that  the  other  branches 
assisted  him  therein,  and  commenced  on  their  own  account ; 
that  their  children  again,  were  educated  to  the  profession  ; 
and  that  about  their  identity  there  could  be  no  mistake  what- 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 


ever.  We  could  not  be  blind,  we  say,  to  this  melancholy 
truth,  but  we  could  not  bring  ourselves  to  admit  it,  neverthe- 
less and  we  lived  on  for  some  years  in  a  state  of  voluntary 
ignorance.  We  were  roused  from  our  pleasant  slumber  by 
certain  dark  insinuations  thrown  out  by  a  friend  of  ours,  to 
the  effect  that  children  in  the  lower  ranks  of  life  were  be2:in- 
ning  to  choose  chimney-sweepmg  as  their  particular  walk ; 
that  applications  had  been  made  by  various  boys  to  the  con- 
stituted authorities,  to  allow  them  to  pursue  the  object  of 
their  ambition  with  the  full  concurrence  and  sanction  of  the 
law  ;  that  the  affair,  in  short,  was  becoming  one  of  mere  legal 
contract.  We  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  these  rumors  at  first,  bur 
slowly  and  surely  they  stole  upon  us.  Month  after  month, 
week  after  week,  nay,  day  after  day,  at  last,  did  we  meet  with 
accounts  of  similar  applications.  The  veil  was  removed,  all 
mystery  was  at  an  end,  and  chimney-sweeping  had  become  a 
favorite  and  chosen  pursuit.  There  is  no  longer  any  occasion 
to  steal  boys ;  for  boys  flock  in  cjowds  to  bind  themselves. 
The  romance  of  the  trade  has  fled,  and  the  chimney-sweeper 
of  the  present  day,  is  no  more  like  unto  him  of  thirty  years 
ago,  than  is  a  Fleet-street  pickpocket  to  a  Spanish  brigand, 
or  Paul  Pry  to  Cabel  Williams. 

This  gradual  decay  and  disuse  of  the  practice  of  leading 
noble  youths'  into  captivity,  and  compelling  them  to  ascend 
chimneys,  was  a  severe  blow,  if  we  may  so  speak,  to  the  ro- 
mance of  chimney-sweeping,  and  to  the  romance  of  spring  at 
the  same  time.  But  even  this  was  not  all,  for  some  few  years 
ago  the  dancing  on  May-day  began  to  decline  ;  small  sweeps 
weie  observed  to  congregate  in  twos  or  threes,  unsupported 
by  a  "green,"  with  no  My  Lord"  to  act  as  master  of  the 
ceremonies,  and  no  "  My  Lady "  to  preside  over  the  ex- 
chequer. Even  in  companies  where  there  was  a  "  green  "  it 
was  an  absolute  nothing — a  mere  sprout — and  the  instru- 
mental accompaniments  rarely  extended  beyond  the  shovels 
and  a  set  of  Pan-pipes,  better  known  to  the  many,  as  a  "  mouth- 
organ." 

These  were  signs  of  the  times,  portentous  omens  of  a 
coming  change  ;  and  what  was  the  result  which  they  shadowed 
forth  ?  Why,  the  master  sweeps,  influenced  by  a  restless 
spirit  of  innovation,  actually  interposed  their  authority,  in 
opposition  to  the  dancing,  and  substituted  a  dinner — an  an- 
niversary dinner  at  White  Conduit  House — where  clean  faces 
appeared  in  lieu  of  black  ones  smeared  with  rose  pink  ;  and 


THE  FIRST  OF  MA  Y. 


knee  cords  and  tops  superseded  nankeen  drawers  and  ro- 
setted  shoes. 

Gentlemen  who  were  in  the  habit  of  riding  shy  horses ; 
and  steady-going  people  who  have  no  vagrancy  in  their  souls, 
lauded  this  alteration  to  the  skies,  and  the  conduct  of  the 
master  sweeps  was  described  as  beyond  the  reach  of  praise. 
But  how  stands  the  real  fact  ?  Let  any  man  deny,  if  he  can, 
that  when  the  cloth  had  been  removed,  fresh  pots  and  pipes 
laid  upon  the  table,  and  the  customary  loyal  and  patriotic 
toasts  proposed,  the  celebrated  Mr.  Sluffen,  of  Adam-and- 
Eve-court,  whose  authority  not  the  most  malignant  of  our 
opponents  can  call  in  question,  expressed  himself  in  a  manner 
following :  "  That  now  he'd  cotcht  the  cheerman's  hi,  he 
vished  he  might  be  jolly  veil  blessed,  if  he  worn't  a  gcin'  to 
have  his*  innings,  vich  he  vould  say  these  here  obserwashuns 
— that  how  some  mischeevus  coves  as  know'd  nuffin  about 
the  consarn,  had  tried  to  sit  people  again  the  mas'r  swips, 
and  take  the  shine  out  o'  their  bis'nes,  and  the  bread  out  o' 
^he  traps  o'  their  preshus  kids,  by  a  makin'  o'  this  here  re- 
mark, as  chimblies  could  be  as  veil  svept  by  'sheenery  as  by 
boys  ;  and  that  the  makin'  use  o'  boys  for  that  there  purpuss 
vos  barbareous  ;  vereas,  he  'ad  been  a  chummy — he  begged 
the  cheerman's  parding  for  usin'  such  a  wulgar  hexpression — 
more  nor  thirty  year — he  might  say  he'd  been  born  in  a  chim- 
bley — and  he  know'd  uncommon  veil  as  'sheenery  vos  vus 
nor  o'  no  use  :  and  as  to  kerhewelty  to  the  boys,  everybody  in 
the  chimbley  line  know'd  as  veil  as  he  did,  that  they  liked  the 
climbin'  better  nor  nuffin  as  vos."  From  this  day,  we  date 
the  total  fall  of  the  last  lingering  remnant  of  May-day  danc- 
ing, among  the  elite  of  the  profession  :  and  from  this  period 
we  commence  a  new  era  in  that  portion  of  our  spring  associa- 
tions v/hich  relates  to  the  ist  of  May. 

We  are  aware  that  the  unthinking  part  of  the  population 
will  meet  us  here,  wdth  the  assertion,  that  dancing  on  Ma}^- 
day  still  continues — that  "greens  "  are  annually  seen  to  roll 
along  the  streets — that  youths  in  the  garb  of  clowns,  precede 
them,  giving  vent  to  the  ebullitions  of  their  sportive  fancies  ; 
and  that  lords  and  ladies  follow  in  their  wake. 

Granted.  We  are  ready  to  acknowledge  that  in  outward 
show,  these  processions  have  greatly  improved  :  we  do  not 
deny-  the  introduction  of  solos  on  the  drum  ;  w^e  will  even  go 
so  far  us  to  admit  an  occasional  fantasia  on  the  triangle.,  but 
h'^re  our  admissions  end.    We  positively  deny  that  the  sweeps 


514 


SKE TCHES  BY  BOZ. 


have  art  or  part  in  these  proceedings.  We  distinctly  charge 
the  dustmen  with  throwing  what  they  ought  to  clear  away, 
into  the  eyes  of  the  public.  We  accuse  scavengers,  brick- 
makers,  and  gentlemen  who  devote  their  energies  to  the  cos* 
termongering  line,  with  obtaining  money  once  a-year,  under 
false  pretences.  We  cling  with  peculiar  fondness  to  the 
^custom  of  days  gone  by,  and  have  shut  out  conviction  as  long 
jas  we  could,  but  it  has  forced  itself  upon  us  ;  and  we  now 
proclaim  to  a  deluded  public,  that  the  May-day  dancers  are 
not  sweeps.  The  size  of  them,  alone,  is  sufficient  to  repudiate 
the  idea.  It  is  a  notorious  fact  that  the  widely- spread  taste 
"for  register -stoves  has  materially  increased  the  demand  for 
small  boys ;  whereas  the  men,  who,  under  a  fictitious  char- 
acter, dance  about  the  streets  on  the  first  of  May  nowadays, 
would  be  a  tight  fit  in  a  kitchen  flue,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
parlor.  This  is  strong  presumptive  evidence,  but  we  have 
positive  proof — the  evidence  of  our  own  senses.  And  here 
is  our  testimony. 

Upon  the  morning  of  the  second  of  the  merry  month  of 
May,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  one  thousand  eight  hundred 
and  thirty-six,  we  went  out  for  a  stroll,  with  a  kind  of  forlorn 
hope  of  seeing  something  or  other  which  might  induce  us  to 
believe  that  it  was  really  spring,  and  not  Christmas.  After 
wandering  as  far  as  Copenhagen  House,  without  meeting 
anything  calculated  to  dispel  our  impression  that  there  was  a 
mistake  in  the  almanacs,  we  turned  back  down  Maiden-lane, 
with  the  intention  of  passing  through  the  extensive  colony 
lying  between  it  and  Battle-bridge,  which  is  inhabited  by  pro- 
prietors of  donkey-carts,  boilers  of  horse-flesh,  makers  of  tiles, 
and  sifters  of  cinders  j  through  which  colony  we  should  have 
passed,  without  stoppage  or  interruption,  if  a  little  crowd 
gathered  round  a  shed  had  not  attracted  our  attention,  and 
induced  us  to  pause. 

When  we  say  a  "  shed,"  we  do  not  mean  the  conservatory 
sort  of  building,  which,  according  to  the  old  song,  Love  ten- 
anted when  he  was  a  young  man,  but  a  wooden  house  with 
windows  stuffed  with  rags  and  paper,  and  a  small  yard  at  the 
side,  with  one  dust-cart,  two  baskets,  a  few  shovels,  and  little 
heaps  of  cinders,  and  fragments  of  china  and, tiles,  scattered 
about  it.  Before  this  inviting  spot  we  paused ;  and  the 
longer  we  looked,  the  more  we  wondered  what  exciting  cir- 
cumstance it  could  be,  that  induced  the  foremost  members  of 
the  crowd  to  flatten  thejr  noses  against  the  parlor  window,  in 


THE  FIRST  OF  MA  K 


the  vain  hope  of  catching  a  gUmpse  of  what  was  going  on 
inside.  After  staring  vacantly  about  us  for  some  minutes,  we 
appealed,  touching  the  cause  of  this  assemblage,  to  a  gentle- 
man  in  a  suit  of  tarpauling,  who  was  smoking  his  pipe  on 
our  right  hand  ;  but  as  the  only  answer  we  obtained  was  a 
playful  inquiry  whether  our  mother  had  disposed  of  her 
mangle,  we  determined  to  await  the  issue  in  silence. 

Judge  of  our  virtuous  indignation,  when  the  street-door  of 
the  shed  opened,  and  a  party  emerged  therefrom,  clad  in  the 
costume  and  emulating  the  appearance,  of  May-day  sweeps  ! 

The  first  person  who  appeared  was  "my  lord,"  habited  in 
a  blue  coat  and  bright  buttons,  with  gilt  paper  tacked  over 
the  seams,  yellow  knee-breeches,  pink  cotton  stockings,  and 
shoes ;  a  cocked  hat,  ornamented  with  shreds  of  various- 
colored  paper,  on  his  head,  a  bouquet^  the  size  of  a  prize 
cauliflower  in  his  button-hofe,  a  long  Belcher  handkerchief  in 
his  right  hand,  and  a  thin  cane  in  his  left.  A  murmur  of  ap- 
plause ran  through  the  crowd  (which  was  chiefly  composed  of 
his  lordship's  personal  friends),  when  this  graceful  figure 
made  his  appearance,  which  swelled  into  a  burst  of  applause 
as  his  fair  partner  in  the  dance  bounded  forth  to  join  him. 
Her  ladyship  was  attired  in  pink  crape  over  bed-furniture, 
with  a  low  body  and  short  sleeves.  The  symmetry  of  hei 
ankles  was  partially  concealed  by  a  very  perceptible  pair  of 
frilled  trousers ;  and  the  inconvenience  which  might  have 
resulted  from  the  circumstance  of  her  white  satin  shoes  bein^ 
a  few  sizes  too  large,  was  obviated  by  their  being  firmly  at- 
tached to  her  legs  with  strong  tape  sandals. 

Her  head  was  ornamented  with  a  profusion  of  artificial 
flowers ;  and  in  her  hand  she  bore  a  large  brass  ladle,  where- 
in to  receive  what  she  figuratively  denominated  the  tin." 
The  other  characters  were  a  young  gentleman  in  girl's  clothes 
and  a  widow's  cap  ;  two  clowns  who  walked  upon  their  hands 
in  the  mud,  to  the  immeasurable  delight  of  all  the  spectators; 
a  man  with  a  drum ;  another  man  with  a  flageolet ;  a  dirty 
woman  in  a  large  shawl,  with  a  box  under  her  arm  for  the 
money, — and  last,  though  not  least,  the  green,"  animated 
by  no  less  a  personage  than  our  identical  friend  in  the  tar- 
pauling suit. 

The  man  hammered  away  at  the  drum,  the  flageolet 
squeaked,  the  shovels  rattled,  the  green"  rolled  about, 
pitching  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other ;  my  lady 
threw  her  right  foot  over  her  left  ankle,  and  her  left  foot  over 


5  T  6  ^-/iTi  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ, 

her  right  ankle,  alternately;  my  lord  ran  a  few  paces  forward, 
and  butted  at  the  green,"  and  then  a  few  paces  backward 
upon  the  toes  of  the  crowd,  and  then  went  t(f  the  right,  and 
then  to  the  left,  and  then  dodged  my  lady  round  the  "  green  ; " 
and  finally  drew  her  arm  through  his,  and  called  upon  the 
boys  to  shout,  which  they  did  lustily — for  this  was  the  dancing. 

We  passed  the  same  group,  accidentally,  in  the  evening. 
We  never  saw  a  "green"  so  drunk,  a  lord  so  quarrelsome 
(no  :  not  even  in  the  house  of  peers  after  dinner),  a  pair  of 
clowns  so  melancholy,  a  lady  so  muddy,  or  a  party  so  miser- 
able. 

How  has  May-day  decayed  ! 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

brokers'  and  marine-store  shops. 

When  we  affirm  that  brokers'  shops  are  strange  places, 
and  that  if  an  authentic  history  of  their  contents  could  be  pro- 
cured, it  would  furnish  many  a  page  of  amusement,  and  many 
a  melancholy  tale,  it  is  necessary  to  explain  the  class  of  shops 
to  which  we  allude.  Perhaps  when  we  make  use  of"""  the  term 
"  Brokers'  Shop,"  the  minds  of  our  readers  will  at  once  pic- 
ture large,  handsome  warehouses,  exhibiting  a  long  perspect- 
ive of  French-polished  dining-tables,  rosewood  chiffoniers, 
and  mahogany  wash-hand-stands,  with  an  occasional  vista  of 
a  four-post  bedstead  and  hangings,  and  an  appropriate  fore- 
ground of  dining-room  chairs.  Perhaps  they  will  imagine  that 
we  mean  an  humble  class  of  second-hand  furniture  reposi- 
tories. Their  imagination  will  then  naturally  lead  them  to 
that  street  at  the  back  of  Long-acre,  which  is  composed  almost 
entirely  of  brokers'  shops ;  where  you  walk  through  groves  of 
deceitful,  showy-looking  furniture,  and  where  the  prospect  is 
occasionally  enlivened  by  a  bright  red,  blue,  and  yellow  hearth- 
rug, embellished  with  the  pleasing  device  of  a  mail-coach  at 
full-speed,  or  a  strange  animal,  supposed  to  have  been  orig- 
inally intended  for  a  dog,  with  a  mass  of  worsted-work  in  his 
mouth,  which  conjecture  has  likened  to  a  basket  of  flowers. 

This,  by  the  bye,  is  a  tempting  article  to  young  wives  in  the 


BROKERS'  AMD  MARINE-STORE  SHOPS. 


humbler  ranks  of  life,  who  have  a  first-floor  front  to  furnish — • 
they  are  lost  in  admiration,  and  hardly  know  which  to  admire 
most.  The  dog  is  very  beautiful,  but  they  have  a  dog  already 
on  the  best  tea-tray,  and  two  more  on  the  mantel-piece.  Then, 
there  is  something  so  genteel  about  that  mail-coach  ;  and  the 
passengers  outside  (who  are  all  hat)  give  it  such  an  air  oi 
reality  ! 

The  goods  here  are  adapted  to  the  taste,  or  rather  to  the 
means,  of  cheap  purchasers.  There  are  some  of  the  most 
beautiful  looking  Pembroke  tables  that  were  ever  beheld,  the 
wood  as  green  as  the  trees  in  the  Park,  and  the  leaves  almost 
as  certain  to  fall  off  in  the  course  of  a  year,  ^here  is  also  a 
most  extensive  assortment  of  tent  and  turn-up  bedsteads,  made 
of  stained  wood,  and  innumerable  specimens  of  that  base 
imposition  on.  society — a  sofa  bedstead. 

A  turn-up  bedstead  is  a  blunt,  honest  piece  of  furniture  ; 
it  may  be  slightly  disguised  with  a  sham  drawer ;  and  some- 
times a  mad  attempt  is  even  made  to  pass  it  off  for  a  book- 
case ;  ornament  it  as  you  will,  however,  the  turn-up  Kedstead 
seems  to  defy  disguise,  and  to  insist  on  having  it  distinctly 
understood  that  he  is  a  turn-up  bedstead,  and  nothing  else — ■ 
that  he  is  indispensably  necessary,  and  that  being  so  useful, 
he  disdains  to  be  ornamental. 

How  different  is  the  demeanor  of  a  sofa  bedstead  ! 
Ashamed  of  its  real  use,  it  strives  to  appear  an  article  of 
luxury  and  gentility — an  attempt  in  which  it  miserably  fails. 
It  has  neither  the  respectability  of  a  sofa,  nor  the  virtues  of 
a  bed  ;  every  man  who  keeps  a  sofa  bedstead  in  his  house, 
becomes  a  party  to  a  wilful  and  designing  fraud — we  ques- 
tion whether  you  could  insult  him  more,  than  by  insinuating 
that  you  entertain  the  least  suspicion  of  its  real  use. 

To  return  from  this  digression,  we  beg  to  say,  that  neither 
of  these  classes  of  brokers'  shops,  forms  the  subject  of  this 
sketch.  The  shops  to  which  we  advert,  are  immeasurably 
inferior  to  those  on  whose  outward  appearance  we  have  slightly 
touched.  Our  readers  must  often  have  observed  in  some  by- 
street, in  a  poor  neighborhood,  a  small  dirty  shop,  exposing 
for  sale  the  most  extraordinary  and  confused  jumble  of  old, 
worn-out,  wretched  articles,  that  can  well  be  imagined.  Our 
wonder  at  their  ever  having  been  bought,  is  only  to  be  equalled 
by  our  astonishment  at  the  idea  of  their  ever  being  sold  again. 
On  a  board,  at  the  side  of  the  door,  are  placed  about  twenty 
books — all  odd  volumes ;  and  as  many  wineglasses — all  difter^ 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


ent  patterns  ;  several  locks,  an  old  earthenware  pan  full  of  rust} 
keys ;  two  or  three  gaudy  chimney-orname»ts — cracked,  of 
course ;  the  remains  of  a  lustre,  without  any  drops  y  a  round  frame 
like  a  capital  O,  which  has  once  held  a  mirror  ;  a  flute,  complete 
with  the  exception  of  the  middle  joint  ;  a  pair  of  curling-irons  i 
and  a  tinder-box.  In  front  of  the  shop-window,  are  ranged 
some  half-dozen  high-backed  chairs,  with  spinal  complaints 
a^d  wasted  legs  ;  a  corner  cupboard ;  two  or  three  very  dark 
mahogany  tables  with  flaps  like  mathematical  problems  ;  some 
pickle-jars,  some  surgeons'  ditto,  with  gilt  labels  and  without 
stoppers  ;  an  unframed  portrait  of  some  lady  who  flourished 
about  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century,  by  an  artist 
who  never  flourished  at  all ;  an  incalculable  host  of  miscella- 
nies of  every  description,  including  bottles  and  cabinets,  rags 
and  bones,  fenders  and  street-door  knockers,  fire-irons,  wear- 
ing  apparel  and  bedding,  a  hall-lamp,  and  a  room-door.  Im- 
agine, in  addition  to  this  incongruous  mass,  a  black  doll  in  a 
white  frock,  with  two  faces — one  looking  up  the  street,  and 
the  other  looking  down,  swinging  over  the  door  ;  a  board  v/ith 
the  squeezed-up  inscription  ^'  Dealer  in  marine  stores,"  in 
lanky  white  letters,  whose  height  is  strangely  out  of  propor- 
tion to  their  width  ;  and  you  have  before  you  precisely  the 
kind  of  shop  to  which  we  wish  to  direct  your  attention. 

Although  the  same  heterogeneous  mixture  of  things  will  be 
found  at  all  these  places,  it  is  curious  to  observe  how  truly 
and  accurately  some  of  the  minor  articles  which  are  exposed 
for  sale — articles  of  wearing  apparel,  for  instance — mark  the 
character  of  the  neighborhood.  Take  Drury-lane  and  Cov- 
ent-garden  for  example. 

This  is  essentially  a  theatrical  neighborhood.  There  is 
not  a  potboy  in  the  vicinity  who  is  not,  to  a  greater  or  less 
extent,  a  dramatic  character.  The  errand-boys  and  chandler's- 
shop-keepers'  sons,  are  all  stage  -struck  :  they  "  gets  up  "  plays 
in  back  kitchens  hired  for  the  purpose,  and  will  stand  before 
a  shop-window  for  hours,  contemplating  a  great  staring  por- 
trait of  Mr.  somebody  or  other,  of  the  Royal  Coburg  Theatre, 
as  he  appeared  in  the  character  of  Tongo  the  Denounced." 
The  consequence  is,  that  there  is  not  a  marine-store  shop  in 
the  neighborhood,  which  does  not  exhibit  for  sale  some  faded 
articles  of  dramatic  finery,  such  as  three  or  four  pairs  of 
soiled  buff  boots  with  turn-over  red  tops,  heretofore  worn  by 
a  fourth  robber,"  or  fifth  mob;"  a  pair  of  rusty  broad- 
swords, a  few  gauntlets,  and  certain  resplendent  ornamentSy 


BROKERS'  AND  MARINE-STORE  SHOPS. 


which,  if  they  were  yellow  instead  of  white,  might  be  taken 
for  insurance  plates  of  the  Sun  Fire-office.  There  are  several 
of  these  shops  in  the  narrow  streets  and  dirty  courts,  of  which 
there  are  so  many  near  the  national  theatres,  and  they  all 
have  tempting  goods  of  this  description,  with  the  addition, 
perhaps,  of  a  lady's  pink  dress  covered  with  spangles  ;  white 
wreaths,  stage  shoes,  and  a  tiara  like  a  tin  lamp  reflecior. 
They  have  been  purchased  of  some  wretched  supernumeraries, 
or  sixth-rate  actors,  and  are  now  offered  for  the  benefit  of  the 
rising  generation,  who,  on  condition  of  making  certain  weekly 
payments,  amounting  in  the  whole  to  about  ten  times  their 
value,  may  avail  themselves  of  such  desirable  bargains. 

Let  us  take  a  very  different  quarter,  and  apply  it  to  the 
same  test.  Look  at  a  marine-store  dealer's,  in  that  reservoir 
of  dirt,  drunkenness,  and  drabs  :  thieves,  oysters,  baked  pota- 
toes, and  pickled  salmon — Ratcliff-highway.  Here,  the  wear- 
ing apparel  is  all  nautical.  Rough  blue  jackets,  with  mother- 
of-pearl  buttons,  oil-skin  hats,  coarse  checked  shirts,  and  large 
canvas  trousers  that  looked  as  if  they  were  made  for  a  pair 
of  bodies  instead  of  a  pair  of  legs,  are  the  staple  commodities. 
Then,  there  are  large  bunches  of  cotton  pocket-handkerchiefs, 
in  color  and  pattern  unlike  any  one  ever  saw  before,  with  the 
exception  of  those  on  the  backs  of  the  three  young  ladies  with- 
out bonnets  who  passed  )ust  now.  The  furniture  is  much  the 
same  as  elsewhere,  with  the  addition  of  one  or  two  models  of 
ships,  and  some  old  prints  of  naval  engagements  in  still  older 
frames.  In  the  window,  are  a  few  compasses,  a  small  tray 
containing  silver  watches  in  clumsy  thick  cases  ;  and  tobacco- 
boxes,  the  lid  of  each  ornamented  with  a  ship,  or  an  anch-^r, 
or  some  such  trophy.  A  sailor  generally  pawns  or  sells  all 
he  has  before  he  has  been  long  ashore,  and  if  he  does  not, 
come  favored  companion  kindly  saves  him  the  trouble.  In 
either  case,  it  is  an  even  chance  that  he  afterwards  uncon- 
sciously repurchases  the  same  things  at  a  higher  price  than 
he  gave  for  them  at  first.  ^ 

Again  pay  a  visit  with  a  similar  object,  to  a  part  of  Lon- 
don, as  unlike  both  of  these  as  they  are  to  each  other.  Cross 
over  to  the  Surrey  side,  and  look  at  such  shops  of  this  de- 
scription as  are  to  be  found  near  the  King's  Bench  prison, 
and  in  '^the  Rules."  How  different,  and  how  strikingly 
illustrative  of  the  decay  of  some  of  the  unfortunate  residents 
in  this  part  of  the  metropolis  !  Imprisonment  and  neglect 
have  done  their  work.    There  is  contamination  in  the  profii- 


S20 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


gate  denizens  of-  a  debtor's  prison ;  old  friends  have  fallen 
off ;  the  recollection  of  former  prosperity  has  passed  away  ; 
and  with  it  all  thoughts  for  the  past,  all  care  for  the  future. 
First,  watches  and  rings,  then  cloaks,  coats,  and  all  the  more 
expensive  articles  of  dress,  have  found  their  way  to  the  pawn- 
broker's. That  miserable  resource  has  failed  at  last,  and  the 
sale  of  some  trifling  article  at  one  of  these  shops,  has  been 
the  only  mode  left  of  raising  a  shilling  or  two,  to  meet  the 
uigent  demands  of  the  moment.  Dressing-cases  and  writing- 
desks,  too  old  to  pawn  but  too  good  to  keep  ;  guns,  fishing- 
rods,  musical  instruments,  all  in  the  same  condition  ;  have 
first  been  sold,  and  the  sacrifice  has  been  but  slightly  felt. 
But  hunger  must  be  allayed,  and  what  has  already  become  a 
habit,  is  easily  resorted  to,  when  an  emergency  arises.  Light 
articles  of  clothing,  first  of  the  ruined  man,  then  of  his  wife, 
at  last  of  their  children,  even  of  the  youngest,  have  been 
parted  with,  piecemeal.  There  they  are,  thrown  carelessly 
together  until  a  purchaser  presents  himself,  old,  and  patched 
and  repaired,  it  is  true  ;  but  the  make  and  materials  tell  of 
better  days ;  and  the  older  they  are,  the  greater  the  misery 
and  destitution  of  those  whom  they  adorned. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

GIN-SHOPS. 

It  is  a  remarkable  circumstance,  that  different  trades  ap^ 
pear  to  partake  of  the  disease  to  which  elephants  and  dogs 
are  especially  liable,  and  to  run  stark,  staring,  raving  mad, 
periodically.  The  great  distinction  between  the  animals  and 
trades,  is,  that  the  former  run  mad  with  a  certain  degree  of 
propriety — they  are  very  regular  in  their  irregularities.  We 
know  the  period  at  which  the  emergency  will  arise,  and  pro- 
vide against  it  accordingly.  If  an  elephant  run  mad,  we  are 
all  ready  for  him — kill  or  cure — pills  or  bullets,  calomel  in 
conserve  of  roses,  or  lead  in  a  musket-barrel.  If  a  dog  hap- 
pen to  look  unpleasantly  warm  in  the  summer  months,  and 
to  trot  about  the  shady  side  of  the  streets  with  a  quarter  of  a 
^•ard  of  tqngue  hanging  out  of  his  mouthy  a  thick  leather 


GIN-SHOPS. 


521 


niuzi:le,  which  has  been  previously  prepared  in  compliance 
with  the  thoughtful  injunctions  of  the  Legislature,  is  instantly 
clapped  over  his  head,  by  way  of  making  him  cooler,  and  he 
either  looks  remarkably  unhappy  for  the  next  six  weeks,  or 
becomes  legally  insane,  and  goes  mad,  as  it  were,  by  act  of 
Parliament.  But  these  trades  are  as  eccentric  as  comers  ; 
nay,  worse,  for  no  one  can  calculate  on  the  recurrence  of  the 
strange  appearances  which  betoken  the  disease.  Moreover, 
the  contagion  is  general,  and  the  quickness  with  which  it  dif- 
fuses itself,  almost  incredible. 

We  will  cite  two  or  three  cases  in  illustration  of  our  mean- 
ing. Six  or  eight  years  ago,  the  epidemic  began  to  display 
itself  among  the  linen-drapers  and  haberdashers,  llie  pri- 
m.ary  symptoms  were  an  inordinate  love  of  plate-glass,  and  a 
passion  for  gas-light  and  gilding.  The  disease  gradually  pro- 
gressed, and  at  last  attained  a  fearful  height.  Quiet  dusty 
old  shops  in  different  parts  of  town,  were  pulled  down  ;  spa- 
cious premises  with  stuccoed  fronts  and  gold  letters,  were 
erected  instead  ;  floors,  were  covered  with  Turkey  carpets  ; 
roofs,  supported  by  massive  pillars ;  doors,  knocked  into 
windows  ;  a  dozen  squares  of  glass  into  one  ;  one  shopman 
into  a  dozen  ;  and  there  is  no  knowing  what  would  have 
been  done,  if  it  had  not  been  fortunately  discov^ered,  just  in 
time,  that  the  Commissioners  of  Bankruptcy  were  as  compe- 
tent to  decide  such  cases  as  the  Commissioners  of  Lunacy, 
and  that  a  little  confinement  and  gentle  examination  did  v/on- 
ders.  The  disease  abated.  It  died  away.  A  year  or  two  of 
comparative  tranquillity  ensued.  Suddenly  it  burst  out  again 
amongst  the  chemists  ;  the  symptoms  were  the  same,  with  the 
addition  of  a  strong  desire  to  stick  the  royal  arms  over  the 
shop-door,  and  a  great  rage  for  mahogany,  varnish  and  ex- 
pensive floor  cloth.  Then,  the  hosiers  were  infected  and  be- 
gan to  pull  down  their  shop-fronts  with  frantic  recklessness. 
The  mania  again  died  away,  and  the  public  began  to  congrat- 
ulate themselves  on  its  entire  disappearance,  when  it  burst 
forth  with  tenfold  violence  among  the  publicans,  and  keepers 
of  wine  vaults.'^  From  that  moment  it  has  spread  among 
them  with  unprecedented  rapidity,  exhibiting  a  concatenation 
of  all  the  previous  symptoms  ;  onward  it  has  rushed  to  every 
part  of  town,  knocking  down  all  the  old  public-houses,  and 
depositing  splendid  mansions,  stone  balustrades,  rosewood 
fittings,  immense  lamps,  and  illuminated  clocks,  at  the  corner 
of  every  street. 


522 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ, 


The  extensive  scale  on  which  these  places  are  established, 
and  the  ostentatious  manner  in  which  the  business  of  even  the 
smallest  among  them  is  divided  into  branches,  is  amusing. 
A  handsome  plate  of  ground  glass  in  one  door  directs  you 
"  To  the  Counting-house  3  "  another  to  the  "  Bottle  Depart- 
ment ; "  a  third  to  the  '^Wholesale  Department ;  "  a  fourth, 
to  The  Wine  Promenade  ;  "  and  so  forth,  until  we  are  in  daily 
expectation  of  meeting  with  a  Brandy  Bell,"  or  a  "  Whiskey 
Entrance,"  Then,  ingenuity  is  exhausted  in  devising  attract- 
ive titles  for  the  different  descriptions  of  gin  ;  and  the  dram- 
drinking  portion  of  the  community  as  they  gaze  upon  the  gi- 
gantic black  and  white  announcements,  which  are  only  to  be 
equalled  in  size  by  the  figures  beneath  them,  are  left  in  a 
state  of  pleasing  hesitation  between  "The  Cream  of  the 
Valley,"  "The  Out  and  Out,"  "The  No  Mistake,"  "The 
Good  for  Mixing,"  "  The  real  Knock-me-down,"  "  The  cele- 
brated Butter  Gin,"  "  The  regular  Flare-up,"  and  a  dozen 
other,  equally  invitmg  and  wholesome  liqueurs.  Although 
places  of  this  description  are  to  be  met  with  on  every  second 
street,  they  are  invariably  numerous  and  splendid  in  precise  pro- 
portion to  the  dirt  and  poverty  of  the  surrounding  neighborhood. 
The  gin-shops  in  and  near  Drury-Lane,  Holborn,  St.  Giles's, 
Covent-Garden,  and  Clare-market,  are  the  handsomest  in 
London.  There  is  more  filth  and  squalid  misery  near  those 
great  thoroughfares  than  in  any  part  of  this  mighty  city. 

We  will  endeavor  to  sketch  the  bar  of  a  large  gin-shop,  and 
its  ordinary  customers,  for  the  edification  of  such  readers  as 
may  not  have  had  opportunities  of  observing  such  scenes  ; 
and  on  the  chance  of  finding  one  suited  to  our  purpose,  we 
will  make  for  Drury-Lane,  through  the  narrow  streets  and 
dirty  courts  which  divide  it  from  Oxford-street,  and  that  classi- 
cal spot  adjoining  the  brewery  at  the  bottom  of  Tottenham- 
court-road,  best  known  to  the  initiated  as  the  "  Rookery." 

The  filthy  and  miserable  appearance  of  this  part  of  Lon- 
don can  hardly  be  imagined  by  those  (and  there  are  many 
such)  who  have  not  witnessed  it.  Wretched  houses  with 
broken  windows  patched  with  rags  and  paper  :  every  room  let 
out  to  a  different  family,  and  in  many  instances  to  two  or  even 
three — fruit  and  "sweet-stuff  "  manufacturers  in  the  cellars,  bar- 
bers and  red-herring  vendors  in  the  front  parlors,  cobblers  in 
the  back  ;  a  bird-fancier  in  the  first  floor,  three  families  on  the 
second,  starvation  in  the  attics.  Irishmen  in  the  passage,  a 
"  musician"  in  the  front  kitchen,  and  a  charwoman  and  five 


GIN-SHOPS. 


hungry  children  in  the  back  one— filth  everywhere — a  gutter 
before  the  houses  and  a  drain  behind — clothes  drying  and 
slops  emptying,  from  the  windows  ;  girls  of  fourteen  or  fifteen, 
with  matted  hair,  walking  about  barefoot,  and  in  white  great- 
coats, almost  their  only  covering ;  boys  of  all  ages,  in  coats 
of  all  sizes  and  no  coats  at  all ;  men  and  women,  in  every 
variety  of  scanty  and  dirty  apparel,  lounging,  scolding,  drink- 
ing, smoking,  squabbling,  fighting,  and  swearing. 

You  turn  the  corner.  What  a  change  !  All  is  light  and 
brilliancy.  The  hum  of  many  voices  issues  from  that  splendid 
gin-shop  which  forms  the  commencement  of  the  two  streets 
opposite  ;  and  the  gay  building  with  the  fantastically  orna- 
mented parapet,  the  illuminated  clock,  the  plate-glass  win- 
dows surrounded  by  stucco  rosettes,  and  its  profusion  of  gas- 
lights in  richly-gilt  burners,  is  perfectly  dazzling  when  con- 
trasted with  the  darkness  and  dirt  we  have  just  left.  The  in- 
terior is  even  gayer  than  the  exterior.  A  bar  of  French  pol- 
ished mahogany,  elegantly  carved,  extends  the  whole  width 
of  the  place  ;  and  there  are  two  side-aisles  of  great  casks, 
painted  green  and  gold,  enclosed  within  alight  brass  rail,  and 
bearing  such  inscriptions,  as  "  Old  Tom,  549  ;  "  Young  Tom, 
360  "  Samson,  142 1  " — the  figures  agreeing,  we  presume, 
with  "  gallons, understand.  Beyond  the  bar  is  a  lofty  and 
spacious  saloon,  full  of  the  same  enticing  vessels,  with  a 
gallery  running  round  it  equally  well  furnished.  On  the 
counter,  in  addition  to  the  usual  spirit  apparatus,  are  two 
or  three  little  baskets  of  cakes  and  biscuits,  which  are 
carefully  secured  at  top  with  wicker-work,  to  prevent  their 
contents  being  unlawfully  abstracted.  Behind  it,  are  two 
showily-dressed  damsels  with  large  necklaces,  dispensing  the 
spirits  and  ''compounds."  They  are  assisted  by  the  ostensi- 
ble proprietor  of  the  concern,  a  stout  coarse  fellow  in  a  fur 
cap,  put  on  very  much  on  one  side  to  give  him  a  knowing  air, 
and  to  display  his  sandy  whiskers  to  the  best  advantage. 

The  two  old  washerwomen,  who  are  seated  on  the  little 
bench  to  the  left  of  the  bar,  are  rather  overcome  by  the  head- 
dresses and  haughty  demeanor  of  the  young  ladies  who  offici- 
ate. They  receive  their  half-quartern  of  gin  and  peppermint, 
with  considerable  deference,  prefacing  a  request  for  ''  one  of 
them  soft  biscuits,"  witha'^Jist  be  good  enough,  ma'am." 
They  are  quite  astonished  at  the  impudent  air  of  the  young 
fellow  in  a  brown  coat  and  bright  buttons,  who,  ushering  in 
his  two  companions,  and  walking  up  to  the  bar  in  as  careless 


S24 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


a  manner  as  if  be  had  been  used  to  green  and  gold  ornaments 
all  his  life,  winks  at  one  of  the  young  ladies  with  singular 
coolness,  and  calls  for  a  ^'  kervorten  and  a  three-out-glass,"  just 
as  if  the  place  were  his  own.  Gin  for  you,  sir  ? "  says  the 
young  lady  when  she  has  drawn  it  :  carefully  looking  every 
way  but  the  right  one,  to  show  that  the  wink  had  no  effect 
upon  her.  "  For  me,  Mary,  my  dear,''  replies  the  gentleman 
in  brown.  "My  name  an't  Mary  as  it  happens,"  says  the 
young  girl,  rather  relaxing  as  she  delivers  the  change.  "  Weil, 
if  it  an't,  it  ought  to  be,"  responds  the  irresistible  one  ;  "  all 
the  Marys  as  ever  /  see,  was  handsome  gals."  Here  the 
young  lady,  not  precisely  remembering  how  blushes  are  man- 
aged in  such  cases,  abruptly  ends  the  flirtation  by  addressing 
the  female  in  the  faded  feathers  who  has  just  entered,  and 
who,  after  stating  explicitly,  to  prevent  any  subsequent  mis- 
understanding, that  "this  gentleman  pays,"  calls  for  "a 
glass  of  port  wine  and  a  bit  of  sugar." 

Those  two  old  men  who  came  in  "just  to  have  a  drain," 
finished  their  third  quartern  a  few  seconds  ago ;  they  have 
made  themselves  crying  drunk  ;  and  the  fat  comfortable-look- 
ing elderly  women,  who  had  "  a  glass  of  rum-srub  "  each, 
having  chimed  in  with  their  complaints  on  the  hardness  of 
the  times,  one  of  the  women  has  agreed  to  stand  a  glass 
round,  jocularly  observing  that  "grief  never  mended  no  bro- 
ken bones,  and  as  good  people's  wery  scarce,  Avhat  I  says  is, 
make  the  most  on  'em,  and  that's  all  about  it  !  "  a  sentiment 
wdrich  appears  to  afford  unlimited  satisfaction  to  those  who 
have  nothing  to  pay. 

It  is  growing  late,  and  the  throng  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  who  have  been  constantly  going  in  and  out,  dwindles 
down  to  two  or  three  occasional  stragglers — cold,  wretched- 
looking  creatures,  in  the  last  stage  of  emaciation  and  disease. 
The  knot  of  Irish  laborers  at  the  lower  end  of  the  place,  who 
have  been  alternately  shaking  hands  with,  and  threatening 
the  life  of  each  other,  for  the  last  hour,  become  furious  in 
their  disputes,  and  finding  it  impossible  to  silence  one  man 
who  is  particularly  anxious  to  adjust  the  difference,  they  resort 
to  the  expedient  of  knocking  him  down  and  jumping  on  him 
afterwards.  The  man  in  the  fur  cap,  aikl  the  potboy  rush  out ; 
a  scene  of  riot  and  confusion  ensues  ;  half  the  Irishmen  get 
shut  out,  and  the  other  half  get  shut  in  ;  the  potboy  is  knocked 
among  the  tubs  in  no  time  ;  the  landlord  hits  everybody,  and 
everybody  hits  the  landlord  ;  the  barmaids  scream ;  the  po 


THE  PA  WNBROKER'S  SHOP, 


lice  come  in ;  the  rest  is  a  confused  mixture  of  arms,  legs, 
staves,  torn  coats,  shouting,  and  struggling.  Some  of  the 
party  are  borne  off  to  the  station-house,  and  the  remainder 
slink  home  to  beat  their  wives  for  complaining,  and  kick  the 
children  for  daring  to  be  hungry. 

We  have  sketched  this  subject  very  slightly,  not  only  be- 
cause our  limits  compel  us  to  do  so,  but  because,  if  it  were 
pursued  farther- it  would  be  painful  and  repulsive.  Well- 
disposed  gentlemen,  and  charitable  ladies,  would  alike  turn 
with  coldness  and  disgust  from  a  description  of  the  drunken 
besotted  men,  and  wretctied  broken-down  miserable  women, 
who  form  no  inconsiderable  portion  of  the  frequenters  of 
these  haunts ;  forgetting,  in  the  pleasant  consciousness  of 
their  own  rectitude,  the  poverty  of  the  one,  and  the  tempta- 
tion of  the  other.  Gin-drinking  is  a  great  vice  in  England, 
but  wretchedness  and  dirt  are  a  greater ;  and  until  you  im- 
prove the  homes  of  the  poor,  or  persuade  a  half-famished 
wretch  not  to  seek  relief  in  the  temporary  oblivion  of  his  own ' 
misery,  with  the  pittance  which,  divided  among  his  family, 
would  furnish  a  morsel  of  bread  for  each,  gin-shops  will  in- 
crease in  number  and  splendor.  If  Temperance  Societies 
would  suggest  an  antidote  against  hunger,  filth,  and  foul  air, 
or  could  establish  dispensaries  for  the  gratuitous  distribution 
of  bottles  of  Lethe-water,  gin-palaces  would  be  numbered 
among  the  things  that  were. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  pawnbroker's  SHOP. 

Of  the  numerous  receptacles  for  misery  and  distress  with 
which  the  streets  of  London  unhappily  abound,  there  are, 
perhaps,  none  which  present  such  striking  scenes  as  the  pawn- 
brokers' shops.  The  very  nature  and  description  of  these 
places  occasions  their  being  but  little  known,  except  to  the 
unfortunate  beings  whose  profligacy  or  misfortune  drives  them 
to  seek  the  temporary  relief  they  offer.  The  subject  may 
appear,  at  first  sight,  to  be  anything  but  an  inviting  one,  but 
w^"  venture  on  it  nevertheless,  in  the  hope  that,  as  far  as  the 


526 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


lirrats  of  our  present  paper  are  concerned,  it  will  present  no- 
thing to  disgust  even  the  most  fastidious  reader. 

There  are  some  pawnbrokers'  shops  of  a  very  superior 
description.  There  are  grades  in  pawning  as  in  everydiing 
else,  and  distinctions  must  be  observed  even  in  poverty.  The 
aristocratic  Spanish  cloak  and  the  plebeian  calico  shirt,  the 
silver  fork  and  the  flat  iron,  the  muslin  cravat  and  the  Belcher 
n.eckerchief,  would  but  ill  assort  together  ;  so^-  the  better  sort 
of  pawnbroker  calls  himself  a  silversmith,  and  decorates  his 
shop  with  handsome  trinkets  and  expensive  jewelry,  while 
the  more  humble  money-lender  boldly  advertises  his  caUing, 
and  invites  observation.  It  is  with  pawnbrokers'  shops  of  the 
latter  class,  that  we  have  to  do.  We  have  selected  one  for 
our  purpose,  and  will  endeavor  to  describe  it. 

The  pawnbroker's  shop  is  situated  near  Drury-lane,  at  the 
corner  of  a  court,  which  affords  a  side  entrance  for  the 
accommodation  of  such  customers  as  may  be  desirous  of  avoid- 
ing the  observation  of  the  passers-by,  or  the  chance  of  recog- 
nition in  the  public  street.  It  is  a  low,  dirty-looking,  dusty 
shop,  the  door  of  which  stands  always  doubtfully,  a  little  way 
open  :  half  inviting,  half  repelling  the  hesitating  visitor,  who 
if  he  be  as  yet  uninitiated,  examines  one  of  the  old  garnet 
brooches  in  the  window  for  a  minute  or  two  with  affected 
eagerness,  as  if  he  contemplated  making  a  purchase  ;  and 
then  looking  cautiously  round  to  ascertain  that  no  one  watches 
him,  hastily  slinks  in  :  the  door  closing  of  itself  after  him,  to  just 
its  former  width.  The  shop  front  and  the  window-frames  bear 
evident  marks  of  having  been  once  painted ;  but,  what  the 
color  was  originally,  or  at  what  date  it  was  probably  laid  on, 
are  at  this  remote  period  questions  which  may  be  asked,  but 
cannot  be  answered.  Tradition  states  that  the  transparency 
in  the  front  door,  which  displays  at  night  three  red  balls  on  a 
blue  ground,  once  bore  also,  inscribed  in  graceful  waves,  the 
words  Money  advanced  on  plate,  jewels,  wearing  apparel, 
and  every  description  of  property,"  but  a  few  illegible  hiero- 
glyphics are  all  that  now  remain  to  attest' the  fact.  The  plate 
and  jewels  would  seem  to  have  disappeared,  together  with  the 
announcement,  for  the  articles  of  stock,  which  are  displayed 
in  some  profusion  in  the  window,  do  not  include  any  very 
valuable  luxuries  of  either  kind,  A  few  old  china  cups  ;  some 
modern  vases,  adorned  with  pciltry  paintings  of  three  Spanish 
cavaliers  playing  three  Spanish  guitars  ;  or  a  party  of  boors 
carousing :  each  boor  with  one  leg  painfully  elevated  in  the 


THE  PA  IVNBROKER'S  SHOP. 


air,  by  way  of  expressing  his  perfect  freedom  and  gayety; 
several  sets  of  chessmen,  two  or  three  flutes,  a  few  fiddles,  a 
round-eyed  portrait  staring  in  astonishment  from  a  very  dark 
ground  ;  some  gaudily-bound  prayer-books  and  testaments, 
two  rows  of  silver  watches  quite  as  clumsy  and  almost  as 
large  as  Ferguson's  first  ;  numerous  old-fashioned  table  and 
tea  spoons,  displayed,  fan-like,  in  half-dozens  ;  strings  of  coral 
with  great  broad  gilt  snaps  ;  cards  of  rings,  and  brooches, 
fastened  and  labelled  separately,  like  the  insects  in  the  British 
Museum  ;  cheap  silver  pen-holders  and  snuff-boxes,  with  a 
masonic  star,  complete  the  jewelry  department ;  while  five 
or  six  beds  in  smeary  clouded  ticks,  strings  of  blankets  and 
sheets,  silk  and  cotton  handkerchiefs,  and  wearing  apparel  of 
every  description,  form  the  more  useful,  though  even  less 
ornamental,  part,  of  the  articles  exposed  for  sale.  An  ex- 
tensive collection  of  planes,  chisels,  saws,  and  other  carpenters' 
tools,  which  have  been  pledged,  and  never  redeemed,  form 
the  foreground  of  the  picture  ;  while  the  large  frames  full  of 
ticketed  bundles,  which  are  dimly  seen  through  the  dirty 
casement  up  stairs — the  squalid  neighborhood — the  adjoining 
houses,  straggling,  shrunken  and  rotten,  with  one  or  two 
filthy,  unwholesome-looking  heads,  thrust  out  of  every  window, 
and  old  red  pans  and  stunted  plants  exposed  on  the  tottering 
parapets,  to  the  manifest  hazard  of  the  heads  of  the  passers- 
by — the  noisy  men  loitering  under  the  archway  at  the  corner 
of  the  court,  or  about  the  gin-shop  next  door — and  their  wives 
patiently  standing  on  the  curb-stone,  with  large  baskets  of 
cheap  vegetables  slung  round  them  for  sale,  are  its  immediate 
auxiliaries. 

If  the  outside  of  the  pawnbroker's  shop,  be  calculated  to 
attract  the  attention,  or  excite  the  interest,  of  the  speculative 
pedestrian,  its  interior  cannot  fail  to  produce  the  same  effect 
in  an  increased  degree.  The  front  doer,  which  we  have  before 
noticed,  opens  into  the  common  shop,  which  is  the  resort  of 
all  those  customers  whose  habitual  acquaintance  with  such 
scenes  renders  them  indifferent  to  the  observation  of  their 
companions  in  poverty.  Vhe  side  door  opens  into  a  small 
passage  from  which  some  half-dozen  doors  (which  maybe 
secured  on  the  inside  by  bolts)  open  into  a  corresponding 
number  of  little  dens,  or  closets,  which  face  the  counter. 
Here,  the  more  timid  or  respectable  portion  of  the  crowd 
shroud  themselves  from  the  notice  of  the  remainder,  and 
i3atiently  wait  until  the  gentleman  behind  the  counter,  with  the 


S28 


SKE TCHES  BY  BOZ. 


curly  black  hair,  diamond  ring,  and  double  silver  watch-guard 
shall  feel  disposed  to  favor  them  with  his  notice — a  consum- 
mation which  depends  considerably  on  the  temper  of  the 
aforesaid  gentleman  for  the  time  being. 

At  the  present  moment,  this  elegantly-attired  individual  is 
m  the  act  of  entering  the  duplicate  he  has  just  made  out,  in  a 
thick  book  :  a  process  from  which  he  is  diverted  occasionally, 
by  a  conversation  he  is  carrying  on  with  another  young  man 
similarly  employed  at  a  little  distance  from  him,  whose  allu- 
sions to  that  last  bottle  of  soda-water  last  night,"  and  how 
regularly  round  my  hat  he  felt  himself  when  the  young  'ooman 
gave  'em  in  charge,"  would  appear  to  refer  to  the  consequences 
of  some  stolen  joviality  of  the  preceding  evening.  The  cus- 
tomers generally,  however,  seem  unable  to  participate  in  the 
amusement  derivable  from  this  source,  for  an  old  sallow- 
looking  woman,  who  has  been  leaning  with  both  arms  on  the 
counter  with  a  small  bundle  before  her,  for  half  an  hour  pre- 
viously, suddenly  interrupts  the  conversation  by  addressing 
the  jewelled  shopman — Now,  Mr.  Henry,  do  make  haste, 
tiiere's  a  good  soul,  for  my  two  grandchildren's  locked  up  at 
home,  and  I'm  afeer'd  of  the  fire."  The  shopman  slightly 
raises  his  head,  with  an  air  of  deep  abstraction,  and  resumes 
his  entry  with  as  much  deliberation  as  if  he  were  engraving. 
^'  You're  in  a  hurry,  Mrs.  Tatham,  this  ev'nin',  an't  you  "  is  the 
only  notice  he  deigns  to  take,  after  the  lapse  of  five  minutes 
or  so.  ^'  Yes,  I  am  indeed,  Mr.  Henry  ;  now,  do  serve  me 
next,  there's  a  good  creetur.  I  wouldn't  worry  you,  only  it's 
all  along  o'  them  botherin'  children."  What  have  you  got 
here  "  inquires  the  shopman,  unpinning  the  bundle — old 
concern,  I  suppose — pair  o'  stays  and  a  petticut.  You  must 
look  up  somethin'  else,  old  'ooman  ;  I  can't  lend  you  anything 
more  upon  them  ;  they're  completely  worn  out  by  this  time,  if 
it's  only  by  putting  in,  and  taking  out  again,  three  times  a 
week."  *^()h!  you're  a  rum  un' you  are,"  replies  the  old 
woman,  laughing  extremel}',  as  in  duty  bound:  "I  wish  Tr^ 
got  the  gift  of  the  gab  like  you  ;  see  if  I'd  be  up  the  spout  so 
often  then  !  No,  no  ;  it  an't  the  petticut;  it's  a  child's  frock 
and  a  beautiful  silk-ankecher,  as  belongs  to  my  husband.  He 
gave  four  shillin'  for  it,  the  werry  same  blessed  day  as  he 
broke  his  arm." — "  What  do  you  w*ant  upon  these?"  inquires 
Mr.  Henry,  slightly  glancing  at  the  articles,  which  in  all  prob- 
ability are  old  acquaintances.  ''What  do  you  want  upoa 
these  ?  " — Eighteenpence." — "  Lend  you  ninepenpe."— Qh^ 


THE  PA  WNBROKER'S  SHOP. 


make  it  a  shillin' ;  there's  a  dear — do  now?" — Not  an- 
other farden." — ^^Well,  I  suppose  I  must  take  it."  The 
duplicate  is  made  out,  one  ticket  pinned  on  the  parcel,  the 
other  given  to  the  old  woman  ;  the  parcel  is  flung  carelessly 
down  into  a  corner,  and  some  other  customer  prefers  his  claim 
to  be  served  without  further  delay. 

The  choice  falls  on  an  unshaven,  dirty,  sottish-looking 
fellow,  whose  tarnished  paper-cap,  stuck  negligently  over  one 
eye,  communicates  an  additionally  repulsive  expression  to  his 
very  uninviting  countenance.  He  was  enjoying  a  little  relax- 
ation from  his  sedentary-pursuits  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago, 
in  kicking  his  wife  up  the  court.  He  has  come  to  redeem 
some  tools  : — probably  to  complete  a  job  with,  on  account  of 
which  he  has  already  received  some  money,  if  his  inflamed 
countenance  and  drunken  stagger,  may  be  taken  as  evidence 
of  the  fact.  Having  waited  some  little  time,  he  makes  his 
presence  known  by  venting  his  ill-humor  on  a  ragged  urchin, 
who,  being  unable  to  bring  his  face  on  a  level  with  the 
counter  by  any  other  process,  has  employed  himself  in  climb- 
ing up,  and  then  hooking  himself  on  with  his  elbows — an 
uneasy  perch,  from  which  he  has  fallen  at  intervals,  generally 
alighting  on  the  toes  of  the  person  in  his  immediate  vicinity. 
In  the  present  case,  the  unfortunate  little  wretch  has  received 
a  cuff  which  sends  him  reeling  to  the  door  ;  and  the  donor 
of  the  blow  is  immediately  the  object  of  general  indigna- 
tion. 

"  What  do  you  strike  the  boy  for,  you  brute  ?  "  exclaimed 
a  slipshod  woman,  with  two  flat  irons  in  a  little  basketo 
Do  you  think  he's  your  wife,  you  willin  ?  "  Go  and  hang 
yourself  !  "  replies  the  gentleman  addressed,  with  a  drunken 
look  of  savage  stupidity,  aiming  at  the  same  time  a  blow  at 
the  woman  which  fortunately  misses  its  object.  Go  and 
hang  yourself ;  and  wait  till  I  come  and  cut  you  down." — • 
"Cut  you  down,"  rejoins  the  woman,  "I  wish  I  had  the  cut- 
ting of  you  up,  you  wagabond !  (loud.)  Oh !  you  precious 
Tvagabond  !  (rather  louder.)  Where's  your  wife,  you  willin  ? 
(louder  still ;  women  of  this  class  are  always  sympathetic, 
and  work  themselves  into  a  tremendous  passion  on  the  short- 
est notice.)  Your  poor  dear  wife  as  you  uses  worser  nor  a 
dog — strike  a  woman — you  a  man  !  (very  shrill ;)  I  wish  I 
had  you — I'd  murder  you,  I  would,  if  I  died  for  it !  " — "  Now 
be  civil,"  retorts  the  man  fiercely.  '^Be  civil,  you  wiper!" 
ejaculates  the  woman  contemptuously.      An't  it  shocking  ?  * 

34 


53^ 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


she  continues,  turning  round,  and  appealing  to  an  old  woman  f 
who  is  peeping  out  of  one  of  the  little  closets  we  have  before ' 
described,  and  who  has  not  the  slightest  objection  to  join  in 
the  attack,  possessing,  as  she  does,  the  comfortable  convic- 
tion that  she  is  bolted  in.  "  An't  it  shocking,  ma'am  ? 
(Dreadful !  says  the  old  woman  in  parenthesis,  not  exactly 
knowing  what  the  question  refers  to.)  He's  got  a  wife^ 
ma'am,  as  takes  in  mangling,  and  is  as  'dustrious  and  hard- 
working a  young  'ooman  as  can  be  (very  fast),  as  lives  in  the 
back  parlor  of  our  'ous,  which  my  husband  and  me  lives  in 
the  front  one  (with  great  rapidity) — and  we  hears  him  a 
beaten'  on  her  sometimes  when  he  comes  home  drunk,  the 
whole  night  through,  and  not  only  a  beaten'  her,  but  beaten' 
his  own  child  too,  to  make  her  more  miserable — ugh,  you 
beast !  and  she,  poor  creature,  won't  swear  the  peace  agin  him, 
nor  do  nothin',  because  she  likes  the  wretch  arter  all — worse 
luck  1  "  Here,  as  the  woman  has  completely  run  herself  out 
of  breath,  the  pawnbroker  himself,  who  has  just  appeared 
behind  the  counter  in  a  gray  dressing-gown,  embraces  the 
favorable  opportunity  of  putting  in  a  word  : — "  Now  I  won't 
have  none  of  this  sort  of  thing  on  my  premises  !  '\  he  inter- 
poses with  an  air  of  authority.  Mrs.  Mackin,  keep  yourself 
to  yourself,  or  you  don't  get  fourpence  for  a  flat  iron  here  ; 
and  Jinkins,  you  leave  your  ticket  here  till  youVe  sober,  and 
send  your  wife  for  them  two  planes,  for  I  won't  have  you  in 
my  shop  at  no  price  ;  so  make  yourself  scarce,  before  I  make 
you  scarcer." 

This  eloquent  address  produces  anything  but  the  effect 
desired  ;  the  women  rail  in  concert  ;  the  man  hits  about  him 
in  all  directions,  and  is  in  the  act  of  establishing  an  indis- 
putable claim  to  gratuitous  lodgings  for  the  night,  when  the 
entrance  of  his  wife,  a  wretched  worn-out  woman,  apparently 
in  the  last  stage  of  consumption,  whose  face  bears  evident 
marks  of  recent  ill-usage,  and  whose  strength  seems  hardly 
equal  to  the  burden — light  enough,  God  knows  ! — of  the  thin, 
sickly  child  she  carries  in  her  arms,  turns  his  cowardly  rage 
in  a  safer  direction.  "  Come  home,  dear,"  cries  the  miser- 
able creature,  in  an  imploring  tone  ;  "  do  come  home,  there's 
a  good  fellow,  and  go  to  bed." — "  Go  home  yourself,"  rejoins 
the  furious  ruffian.  ^'  Do  come  home  quietly,"  repeats  the 
wife,  bursting  into  tears.  Go  home  yourself,"  retorts  the 
husband  again,  enforcing  his  argument  by  a  blow  which  sends 
the  poor  creature  flying  out  of  the  shop.    Her    natural  pro- 


THE  PA  WNBROKER'S  SHOP, 


531 


lector  "  follows  her  up  the  court,  alternately  venting  nis  rage 
in  accelerating  her  progress,  and  in  knocking  the  little  scanty 
blue  bonnet  of  the  unfortunate  child  over  its  still  more  scanty 
and  faded-looking  face. 

In  the  last  box,  which  is  situated  in  the  darkest  and  most 
obscure  corner  of  the  shop,  considerably  removed  from  either 
of  the  gas-lights,  are  a  young  delicate  girl  of  about  twenty, 
and  an  elderly  female,  evidently  her  mother  from  the  resem- 
blance between  them,  who  stand  at  some  distance  back,  as  if 
to  avoid  the  observation  even  of  the  shopman.  It  is  not 
their  first  visit  to  a  pawnbroker's  shop,  for  they  ansvvcr  with- 
out a  moment's  hesitation  the  usual  questions,  put  in  a  rather 
respectful  manner,  and  in  a  much  lower  tone  than  usual,  of 
"  What  name  shall  I  say  ? — Your  own  property  of  course  ? — 
Where  do  you  live  ? — Housekeeper  or  lodger  1 "  They  bar- 
gain, too,  for  a  higher  loan  than  the  shopman  is  at  first 
inclined  to  offer,  which  a  perfect  stranger  would  be  little  dis- 
posed to  do  ;  and  the  elder  female  urges  her  daughter  on,  in 
scarcely  audible  whispers,  to  exert  her  utmost  powers  of  per- 
suasion to  obtain  an  advance  of  the  sum,  and  expatiate  on 
the  value  of  the  articles  they  have  brought  to  raise  a  present 
supply  upon.  They  are  a  small  gold  chain  and  a  Forget 
me  not  "  ring  :  the  girl's  property,  for  they  are  both  too'small 
for  the  mother  ;  given  her  in  better  times  ;  prized,  perhaps, 
once,  for  the  giver's  sake,  but  parted  with  now  without  a 
struggle  ;  for  want  has  hardened  the  mother,  and  her  example 
has  hardened  the  girl^  and  the  prospect  of  receiving  money, 
coupled  with  a  recollection  of  the  misery  they  have  both 
endured  from  the  want  of  it— the  coldness  of  old  friends — the 
stern  refusal  of  some,  and  the  still  more  galling  compassion 
of  others — appears  to  have  obliterated  the  consciousness  of 
self-humiliation,  which  the  idea  of  their  present  situation 
would  once  have  aroused. 

In  the  next  box,  is  a  young  female,  whose  attire,  miserably 
poor,  but  extremely  gaudy,  wretchedly  cold  but  extravagantly 
fine,  too  plainly  bespeaks  her  station.  The  rich  satin  gown 
with  its  faded  trimmings,  the  worn-out  thin  shoes,  and  pink 
silk  stockings,  the  summer  bonnet  in  winter,  and  tlie  sunken 
face,  where  a  daub  of  rouge  only  serves  as  an  index  to  the 
ravages  of  squandered  health  never  to  be  regained,  and  lost 
happiness  never  to  be  restored,  and  where  the  practised 
smile  is  a  wretched  mocker}^  of  the  misery  of  the  heart,  can- 
not be  mistaken.    There  is  something  in  the  glimpse  she  has 


53^ 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


just  caught  of  her  young  neighbor,  and  in  the  sight  of  the 
little  trinkets  she  has  offered  in  pawn,  that  seems  to  have 
awakened  in  this  woman's  mind  some  slumbering  recollection, 
and  to  have  changed,  for  an  instant,  her  whole  demeanor. 
Her  first  hasty  impulse  was  to  bend  forward  as  if  to  scan 
more  minutely  the  appearance  of  her  half-concealed  compan- 
ions ;  her  next,  on  seeing  them  involuntarily  shrink  from  her, 
to  retreat  to  the  back  of  the  box,  cover  her  face  with  hei 
hands,  and  burst  into  tears. 

There  are  strange  chords  in  the  human  heart,  which  will 
lie  dormant  through  years  of  depravity  and  wickedness,  but 
Vv^hich  vibrate  at  last  to  some  slight  circumstance  apparently 
trivial  in  itself,  but  connected  by  some  undefined  and  mdis- 
tinct  association,  with  past  days  that  can  never  be  recalled, 
and  with  bitter  recollections  from  which  the  most  degraded 
creature  in  existence  cannot  escape. 

There  has  been  another  spectator,  in  the  person  of  a 
woman  in  the  common  shop  ;  the  lowest  of  the  low  ;  dirty, 
unbonneted,  flaunting,  and  slovenly.  Her  curiosity  was  at 
first  attracted  by  the  little  she  could  see  of  the  group  ;  then 
her  attention.  The  half-intoxicated  leer  changed  to  an  ex- 
pression of  something  like  interest,  and  a  feeling  similar  to 
that  we  have  described,  appeared  for  a  moment,  and  only  a 
moment,  to  extend  itself  even  to  her  bosom. 

Who  shall  say  how  soon  these  women  may  change  places  ? 
The  last  has  but  two  more  stages — the  hospital  and  the  grave. 
How  many  females  situated  as  her  two  companions  are,  and 
as  she  may  have  been  once,  have  terminated  the  same  wTCtched 
course,  in  the  same  wretched  manner.  One  is  already  tracing 
her  footsteps  with  frightful  rapidity.  How  soon  may  the 
other  follow  her  example  !    How  many  have  done  the  same  I 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

CRIMINAL  COURTS, 

We  shall  never  forget  the  mingled  feelings  of  awe  and  re^ 
spect  with  which  we  used  to  gaze  on  the  exterior  of  Newgate 
in  our  schoolboy  days.    How^  dreadful  its  rough  heavy  w^alls, 


CRIMINAL  COURTS. 


S33 


and  low  massive  doors,  appeared  to  us — the  latter  looking  as 
if  they  were  made  for  the  express  purpose  of  letting  people 
in,  and  never  letting  them  out  again.  Then  the  fetters  over 
the  debtors'  door,  which  we  used  to  think  were  a  bond  fide  set 
of  irons,  just  hung  up  there,  for  convenience  sake,  ready  to 
be  taken  down  at  a  moment's  notice,  and  riveted  on  the  limbs 
of  some  refractory  felon !  We  were  never  tired  of  wondering 
how  the  hackney-coachman  on  the  opposite  stand  could  cut 
jokes  in  the  presence  of  such  horrors,  and  drink  pots  of  half- 
and-half  so  near  the  last  drop. 

Often  have  we  strayed  here,  in  sessions  time,  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  whipping-place,  and  that  dark  building  on  one 
side  of  the  yard,  in  which  is  kept  the  gibbet  with  all  its  dread- 
ful apparatus,  and  on  the  door  of  which  we  half  expected  to 
see  brass  plate,  with  the  inscription  "Mr.  Ketch;''  for  we 
never  imagined  that  the  distinguished  functionary  could  by 
possibility  live  anywhere  else  !  The  days  of  these  childish 
dreams  have  passed  away,  and  with  them  many  boyish  ideas 
of  a  gayer  nature.  But  we  still  retain  so  much  of  our  original 
feeling,  that  to  this  hour  we  never  pass  the  building  without 
something  like  a  shudder. 

What  London  pedestrian  is  there  who  has  not,  at  some 
time  or  other,  cast  a  hurried  glance  through  the  wicket  at 
which  prisoners  are  admitted  into  this  gloomy  mansion,  and 
surveyed  the  few  objects  he  could  discern,  with  an  indescrib- 
able feeling  of  curiosity  ?  The  thick  door,  plated  with  iron 
and  mounted  with  spikes,  just  low  enough  to  enable  you  to 
see,  leaning  over  them,  an  ill-looking  fellow,  in  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat,  belcher  handkerchief  and  top-boots  :  with  a 
brown  coat,  something  between  a  great-coat  and  a  "  sporting  " 
jacket,  on  his  back,  and  an  immense  key  in  his  left  hand. 
Perhaps  you  are  lucky  enough  to  pass,  just  as  the  gate  is  be- 
ing opened;  then,  you  see  on  the  other  side  of  the  lodge, 
another  gate,  the  image  of  its  predecessor,  and  two  or  three 
more  turnkeys,  who  look  lilie  multiplications  of  the  first  one, 
seated  round  a  fire  which  just  lights  up  the  whitewashed 
apartment  sufficiently  to  enable  you  to  catch  a  hasty  glimpse 
of  those  different  objects.  We  have  a  great  respect  for  Mrs. 
Fry,  but  she  certainly  ought  to  have  written  more  romances 
than  Mrs.  Radcliffe. 

We  were  walking  leisurely  down  the  Old  Bailey,  some  time 
ago,  when,  as  we  passed  this  identical  gate,  it  was  opened  by 
the  officiating  "jurnkey.    We  turned  quickly  round,  as  a  matter 


534 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


of  course,  and  saw  two  persons  descending  the  steps.  We 
could  not  help  stopping  and  observing  them. 

They  were  an  elderly  woman,  of  decent:  appearance,  though 
evidently  poor,  and  a  boy  of  about  fourteen  or  fifteen.  The 
woman  was  crying  bitterly ;  she  carried  a  small  bundle  in  her 
hand,  and  the  boy  followed  at  a  short  distance  behind  her. 
Their  little  history  was  obvious.  The  boy  was  her  son,  to 
whose  early  comfort  she  had  perhaps  sacrificed  her  own — for 
whose  sake  she  had  borne  misery  without  repining,  and  pov- 
erty without  a  murmur — looking  steadily  forward  to  the  time, 
when  he  who  had  so  long  witnessed  her  struggles  for  himself, 
might  be  enabled  to  make  some  exertions  for  their  joint  sup- 
port. He  had  formed  dissolute  connections  ;  idleness  had 
led  to  crime ;  and  he  had  been  committed  to  take  his  trial  for 
some  petty  theft.  He  had  been  long  in  prison,  and  after  re- 
ceiving some  trifling  additional  punishment,  had  been  ordered 
to  be  discharged  that  morning.  It  was  his  first  offence,  and 
his  poor  old  mother,  still  hoping  to  reclaim  him,  had  been 
waiting  at  the  gate  to  implore  him  to  return  home. 

We  cannot  forget  the  boy;  he  descended  the  steps  with  a 
dogged  look,  shaking  his  head  with  an  air  of  bravado  and  ob- 
stinate determination.  They  walked  a  few  paces,  and  paused. 
The  woman  put  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  in  an  agony  of 
entreaty,  and  the  boy  sullenly  raised  his  head  as  if  in  refusal. 
It  was  a  brilliant  morning,  and  every  object  looked  fresh  and 
happy  in  the  broad,  gay  sunlight ;  he  gazed  round  him  for  a 
few  moments,  bewildered  with  the  brightness  of  the  scene,  for 
it  was  long  since  he  had  beheld  anything  save  the  gloomy 
walls  of  a  prison.  Perhaps  the  wretchedness  of  his  mother 
made  some  impression  on  the  boy's  hearty  perhaps  some  un- 
defined recollection  of  the  time  when  he  was  a  happy  child, 
and  she  his  only  friend,  and  best  companion,  crowded  on 
him— he  burst  into  tears  ;  and  covering  his  face  with  one 
hand,  and  hurriedly  placing  the  other  in  his  mother's,  walked 
away  with  her. 

Curiosity  has  occasionally  led  us  into  both  Courts  at  the 
Old  Bailey.  Nothing  is  so  likely  to  strike  the  person  who  en- 
ters them  for  the  first  time,  as  the  calm  indifference  with 
which  the  proceedings  are  conducted;  every  trial  seems  a 
mere  matter  of  business.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  form,  but 
no  compassion  ;  considerable  interest,  but  no  sympathy. 
Take  the  Old  Court  for  example.  There  sit  the  Judges,  with 
whose  great  dignity  everybody  is  acquainted,  and  of  whom 


CRIMINAL  COURTS, 


535 


therefore  we  need  say  no  more.  Then,  there  is  the  Lord 
Mayor  in  the  centre,  looking  as  cool  as  a  Lord  Mayor  can 
look,  with  an  immense  bouquet  before  him,  and  habited  in  ail  * 
the  splendor  of  his  office.  Then,  there  are  the  Sheriffs,  who 
are  almost  as  dignified  as  the  Lord  Mayor  himself  j  and  the 
Barristers,  who  are  quite  dignified  enough  in  their  own 
opinion  ;  and  the  spectators,  who  having  paid  for  their  admis-' 
sion,  look  upon  the  whole  scene  as  if  jt  were  got  up  especially 
for  their  amusement.  Look  upon  the  whole  group  in  the 
body  of  the  Court — some  wholly  engrossed  in  the  morning 
papers,  others  carelessly  conversing  in  low  whispers,  and 
others,  again,  quietly  dozing  away  an  hour — and  you  can 
scarcely  believe  that  the  result  of  the  trial  is  a  matter  of  life 
or  death  to  one  wretched  being  present.  But  turn  your  eyes 
to  the  dock  :  watch  the  prisoner  attentively  for  a  few  mo- 
ments ;  and  the  fact  is  before  you,  in  all  its  painful  reality. 
Mark  how  restlessly  he  has  been  engaged  for  the  last  ten 
minutes,  in  forming  all  sorts  of  fantastic  figures  with  the 
herbs  which  are  strewed  upon  the  ledge  before  him  ;  observe 
the  ashy  paleness  of  his  face  when  a  particular  witness  ap- 
pears, and  how  he  changes  his  position  and  wipes  his  clammy 
forehead,  and  feverish  hands,  when  the  case  for  the  prose- 
cution is  closed,  as  if  it  were  a  relief  to  him  to  feel  that  the 
jury  knew  the  worst. 

The  defence  is  concluded  ;  the  judge  proceeds  to  sum  up 
the  evidence  ;  and  the  prisoner  watches  the  countenances  of 
the  jury,  as  a  dying  man,  clinging  to  life  to  the  very  last, 
vainly  looks  in  the  face  of  his  physician  for  a  slight  ray  of 
hope.  They  turn  round  to  consult  \  you  can  almost  hear  the 
man's  heart  beat,  as  he  bites  the  stalk  of  rosemary,  with  a 
desperate  effort  to  appear  composed.  They  resume  their 
places — a  dead  silence  prevails  as  the  foreman  delivers  in  the 
verdict — "Guilty!"  A  shriek  bursts  from  a  female  in  the 
gallery ;  the  prisoner  casts  one  look  at  the  quarter  from 
whence  the  noise  proceeded ;  and  is  immediately  hurried 
from  the  dock  by  the  jailer.  The  clerk  directs  one  of  the 
officers  of  the  court  to  "  take  the  woman  out,"  and  fresh 
business  is  proceeded  with,  as  if  nothing  had  occurred. 

No  imaginary  contrast  to  a  case  like  this,  could  be  as 
complete  as  that  which  is  constantly  presented  in  the  New 
Court,  the  gravity  of.  which  is  frequently  disturbed  in  no  small 
degree,  by  the  cunning  and  pertinacity  of  juvenile  offenders. 
A  boy  of  thirteen  is  tried,  say  for  picking  the  pocket  of  some 


536 


SKETCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 


subject  of  her  Majesty,  and  the  offence  is  about  as  clearly 
proved  as  an  offence  can  be.  He  is  called  upon  for  his  de- 
fence, and  contents  himself  with  a  little  declamation  about  the 
jurymen  and  his  country — asserts  that  all  the  witnesses  haye 
committed  perjury,  and  hints  that  the  police  force  generally 
have  entered  into  a  conspiracy  "  again  "  him.  However  prob- 
able this  statement  may  be,  it  fails  to  convince  the  Court, 
and  some  such  scene  as  the  following  then  takes  place  : 

Court:  Have  you  any  witnesses  to  speak  to  your  character, 
boy  ? 

Boy:  Yes,  my  Lord  ;  fifteen  gen'lm'n  is  a  vaten  outside, 
and  vos  a  vaten  all  day  yesterday,  vich  they  told  me  the  night 
afore  my  trial  vos  a  comin'  on. 

Court:  Inquire  for  these  witnesses. 

Here,  a  stout  beadle  runs  out,  and  vociferates  for  the  wit- 
nesses at  the  very  top  of  his  voice  ;  for  you  hear  his  cry  grow 
fainter  and  fainter  as  he  descends  the  steps  into  the  court- 
yard below.  After  an  absence  of  five  minutes,  he  returns, 
very  warm  and  hoarse,  and  informs  the  Court  of  what  it  knew 
perfectly  well  before  —  namely,  that  there  are  no  such  wit- 
nesses in  attendance.  Hereupon,  the  boy  sets  up  a  most 
awful  howling;  screws  the  lower  j)art  of  the  palms  of  his 
hands  into  the  corners  of  his  eyes  ;  and  endeavors  to  look  the 
picture  of  injured  innocence.  The  jury  at  once  find  him 
guilty,'^  and  his  endeavors  to  squeeze  out  a  tear  or  two  are 
redoubled.  The  governor  of  the  jail  then  states,  in  reply  to 
an  inquiry  from  the  bench,  that  the  prisoner  has  been  under 
his  care  twice  before.  This  the  urchin  resolutely  denies  in 
some  such  terms  as — ^^S'elp  me,  gen'lm'n,  I  never  vos  in 
trouble  afore — indeed,  my  Lord,  I  never  vos.  It's  all  a  howen 
to  my  having  a  twin  brother,  vich  has  wrongfully  got  into 
trouble,  and  vich  is  so  exactly  like  me,  that  no  vun  ever  knows 
the  difference  atween  us." 

This  representation,  like  the  defence,  fails  in  producing 
the  desired  effect,  and  the  boy  is  sentenced,  perhaps,  to  seven 
years'  transportation.  Finding  it  impossible  to  excite  com- 
passion, he  gives  vent  to  his  feelings  in  an  imprecation  bear- 
ing reference  to  the  eyes  of  old  big  vig  !  "  and  as  he  declines 
to  take  the  trouble  of  walking  from  the  dock,  is  forthwith 
carried  out,  congratulating  himself  on  having  succeeded  in 
giving  everybody  as  much  trouble  as  possible. 


A    VISIT    TO  NEWGATE, 


A  VISIT  TO  NEWGATE. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


537 


"  The  force  of  habit  "  is  a  trite  phrase  in  ever}^body's 
mouth  ;  and  it  is  not  a  httle  remarkable  that  those  who  use  it 
most  as  appUed  to  others,  unconsciously  afford  in  their  own 
persons  singular  examples  of  the  power  which  habit  and 
custom  exercise  over  the  minds  of  men,  and  of  the  little 
reflection  they  are  apt  to  bestow  on  subjects  with  which  ever}* 
day's  experience  has  rendered  them  familiar.  If  Bedlam 
could  be  suddenly  removed  like  another  Aladdin's  palace, 
and  set  down  on  the  space  now  occupied  by  Newgate,  scarcely 
one  man  out  of  a  hundred,  whose  road  to  business  every 
morning  lies  through  Newgate-street,  or  the  Old  Bailey,  would 
pass  the  building  without  bestowing  a  hasty  glance  on  its 
small,  grated  windows,  and  a  transient  thought  upon  the  con- 
dition of  the  unhapp)^  beings  immured  in  its  dismal  cells  ;  and 
yet  these  same  men,  day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour,  pass  and 
repass  this  gloomy  depository  of  the  guilt  and  -misery  of  Lon- 
don, in  one  perpetual  stream  of  life  and  bustle,  utterly  un- 
mindful of  the  throng  of  wretched  creatures  pent  up  within  it 
— nay,  not  even  knowing,  or  if  they  do,  not  heeding,  the  fact, 
that  as  they  pass  one  particular  angle  of  the  massive  wall  with 
a  light  laugh  or  a^  merry  whistle,  they  stand  within  one  yard 
of  a  fellow-creature,  bound  and  helpless,  whose  hours  are 
numbered,  from  whom  the  last  feeble  ray  of  hope  has  fled  for 
ever,  and  whose  miserable  career  will  shortly  terminate  in  a 
violent  and  shameful  death.  Contact  with  death  even  in  its 
least  terrible  shape,  is  solemn  and  appalling.  How  much 
more  awful  is  it  to  reflect  on  this  near  vicinity  to  the  dying — 
to  men  in  full  health  and  vigor,  in  the  flower  of  youth  or  the 
prime  of  life,  with  all  their  faculties  and  perceptions  as  acute 
and  perfect  as  your  own  ;  but  dying,  nevertheless — dying  as 
surely — with  the  hand  of  death  imprinted  upon  them  as 
indelibly — as  if  mortal  disease  had  wasted  their  frames  to 
shadows,  and  corruption  had  already  begun  ! 

It  was  with  some  such  thoughts  as  these  that  we  de- 
termined, not  many  weeks  since,  to  visit  the  interior  of  New- 
gate— in  an  amateur  capacity,  of  course  :  and,  having- carried 


1 


[^38  SKETCHES  B  V  BOZ. 

our  intention  into  effect,  we  proceed  to  lay  its  results  before 
our  readers,  in  the  hope — founded  more  upon  the  nature  of 
the  subject,  than  on  any  presumptuous  confidence  in  our  own 
descriptive  powers — that  this  paper  may  not  be  found  wholly 
devoid  of  interest.  We  h^tve  only  to  promis'C,  that  we  do  not 
intend  to  fatigue  the  reader  with  any  statistical  accounts  oi 
'the  prison  ;  they  will  be  found  at  length  in  numerous  reports 
of  numerous  committees,  and  a  variety  of  authorities  of  equal 
weight.  We  took  no  notes,  made  no  memoranda,  measured 
none  of  the  yards,  ascertained  the  exact  number  of  inches  in 
no  particular  room  :  are  unable  even  to  report  of  how  many 
apartments  the  jail  is  composed. 

We  saw  the  prison,  and  saw  the  prisoners ;  and  what  we 
did  see,  and  what  we  thought,  we  will  tell  at  once  in  our  own 
way. 

Having  delivered  our  credentials  to  the  servant  who 
answered  our  knock  at  the  door  of  the  governor's  house,  we 
were  ushered  into  the  "  office  ; "  a  little  room,  on  the  right- 
hand  side  as  you  enter,  with  two  windows  looking  into  the  Old 
Bailey :  fitted  up  like  an  ordinary  attorney's  office,  or  mer- 
chant's counting-house,  with  the  usual  fixtures — a  wainscoted 
partition,  a  shelf  or  two,  a  desk,  a  couple  of  stools,  a  pair  of 
clerks,  an  almanac,  a  clock,  and  a  few  maps.  After  a  little 
delay,  occasioned  by  sending  into  the  interior  of  the  prison 
for  the  officer  whose  duty  it  was  to  conduct  us,  that  func- 
tionary arrived  ;  a  respectable-looking  man  of  about  two  or 
three  and  fifty,  in  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  full  suit  of  black, 
who,  but  for  his  keys,  would  have  looked  quite  as  much  like  a 
clergyman  as  a  turnkey.  We  were  disappointed ;  he  had  not 
even  top-boots  on.  Following  our  conductor  by  a  door 
opposite  to  that  at  which  we  had  entered,  we  arrived  at  a 
small  -room,  without  any  other  furniture  than  a  little  desk, 
with  a  book  for  visitors'  autographs,  and  a  shelf,  on  which 
were  a  few  boxes  for  papers,  and  casts  of  the  heads  and  faces 
of  the  two  notorious  murderers.  Bishop  and  Williams ;  the 
fo^'mer,  in  particular,  exhibiting  a  style  of  head  and  set  of 
features,  which  might  have  afforded  sufficient  moral  grounds 
for  his  instant  execution  at  any  time,  even  had  there  been  no 
other  evidence  against  him.  Leaving  this  room  also,  by  an 
opposite  door,  we  found  ourself  in  the  lodge  which  opens  on 
the  Old  Bailey  ;  one  side  of  which  is  plentifully  garnished  with 
a  choice  collection  of  heavy  sets  of  irons,  including  those 
worn  by  the  redoutable  Jack  Sheppard — genuine  ;  and  those 


A  VISIT  TO  NEWGATE, 


S39 


saidio  have  been  graced  by  the  sturdy  Hmbs  of  the  no  less 
celebrated  Dick  Turpin — doubtful.  From  this  lodge,  a  heavy 
oaken  gate,  bound  with  iron,  studded  with  nails  of  the  same 
material,  and  guarded  by  another  turnkey,  opens  on  a  fev; 
steps,  if  we  remember  right,  which  terminate  in  a  narrow  and 
dismal  stone  passage,  running  parallel  with  the  Old  Bailey, 
and  leading  to  the  different  yards,  through  a  number  of 
tortuous  and  intricate  windings,  guarded  in  their  turn  by  huge 
gates  and  gratings,  whose  appearance  is  sufficient  to  dispel  at 
once  the  slightest  hope  of  escape  that  any  new  comer  may 
have  entertained  ;  and  the  very  recollection  of  which,  on 
eventually  traversing  the  place  again,  involves  one  in  a  maze 
of  confusion. 

It  is  necessary  to  explain  here,  that  the  buildings  in  the 
prison,  or  in  other  words  the  different  wards — form  a  square, 
of  which  the  four  sides  abut  respectively  on  the  Old  Bailey, 
the  old  College  of  Physicians  (now  forming  a  part  of  New- 
gate-market), the  Sessions-house,  and  Newgate-street.  The 
intermediate  space  is  divided  into  several  paved  yards,  in 
which  the  prisoners  take  such  air  and  exercise  as  can  be  had 
in  such  a  place.  These  yards,  with  the  exception  of  that  in 
which  prisoners  under  sentence  of  death  are  confined  (of  which 
we  shall  presently  give  a  more  detailed  description),  run  par- 
allel with  Newgate-street,  and  consequently  from  the  Old  Bailey 
as  it  were,  to  Newgate-market.  The  women's  side  is  in  the 
right  wing  of  the  prison  nearest  the  Sessions-house.  As  we 
were  introduced  into  this  part  of  the  building  first,  we 
will  adopt  the  same  order,  and  introduce  our  readers  to  it 
also. 

Turning  to  the  right,  then,  down  the  passage  to  which  we 
just  now  adverted,  omitting  any  mention  of  intervening  gates 
— for  if  we  noticed  every  gate  that  was  unlocked  for  us  to 
pass  through,  and  locked  again  as  soon  as  we  had  passed, 
we  should  require  a  gate  at  every  comma — we  came  to  a  door 
composed  of  thick  bars  of  wood,  through  which  were  dis- 
cernible, passing  to  and  fro  in  a  narrow  yard,  some  twenty 
tvomen  :  the  majority  of  whom,  however,  as  soon  as  they  were 
aware  of  the  presence  of  strangers,  retreated  to  their  wards. 
One  side  of  this  yard  is  railed  off  at  a  considerable  distance, 
and  formed  into  a  kind  of  iron  cage,  about  five  feet  ten  inches 
in  height,  roofed  at  the  top,  and  defended  in  front  by  iron  bars, 
from  which  the  friends  of  the  female  prisoners  communicate 
with  them.    In  one  corner  of  this  singular-looking  den,  was  a 


S40 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


yellow,  haggard,  decrepit  old  woman,  in  a  tattered  gown  that 
had  once  been  black,  and  the  remains  of  an  old  straw  bonnet, 
with  faded  ribbon  of  the  same  hue,  in  earnest  conversation 
with  a  young  girl — a  prisoner,  of  course — of  about  two-and- 
twenty.  It  is  impossible  to  imagine  a  more  poverty-stricken 
object,  or  a  creature  so  borne  down  in  soul  and  body,  by  excess 
of  misery  and  destitution  as  the  old  woman.  The  girl  was  a 
good-looking  robust  female,  with  a  profusion  of  hair  streaming 
about  in  the  wind — for  she  had  no  bonnet  on — and  a  man's  silk 
pocket-handkerchief  loosely  thrown  over  a  most  ample  pair  of 
shoulders.  The  old  woman  was  talking  in  that  low,  stifled  tone 
of  voice  which  tells  so  forcibly  of  mental  anguish  ;  and  every 
now  and  then  burst  into  an  irrepressible  sharp  abrupt  cry  of 
grief,  the  most  distressing  sound  that  ears  can  hear.  The  girl 
was  perfectly  unmoved.  Hardened  beyond  all  hope  of  re- 
demption, she  listened  doggedly  to  her  mother's  entreaties, 
whatever  they  were  :  and  beyond  inquiring  after  Jem,'^  and 
eagerly  catching  at  the  few  halfpence  her  miserable  parent  had 
brought  her,  took  no  more  apparent  interest  in  the  conversa- 
tion than  the  most  unconcerned  spectators.  Heaven  knows 
there  were  enough  of  them,  in  the  persons  pf  the  other  pris- 
oners in  the  yard,  who  were  no  more  concerned  by  what  was 
passing  before  their  eyes,  and  within  their  hearing,  than  if 
they  were  blind  and  deaf.  Why  should  they  be  ?  Inside 
the  prison,  and  out,  such  scenes  were  too  familiar  to  them, 
to  excite  even  a  passing  thought,  unless  of  ridicule  or  con- 
tempt for  feelings  which  they  had  long  since,  forgotten. 

A  little  farther  on,  a  squalid-looking  woman  in  a  slovenly, 
thick-bordered  cap,  with  her  arms  muffled  in  a  large  red  shawl, 
the  fringed  ends  of  which  straggled  nearly  to  the  bottom  of  a 
dirty  white  apron,  was  communicating  some  instructions  to 
her  visitor — her  daughter  evidently.  The  girl  was  thinly  clad., 
and  shaking  with  the  cold.  Some  ordinary  word  of  recogni- 
tion passed  between  her  and  her  mother  when  she  appeared 
at  the  grating,  but  neither  hope,  condolence,  regret,  nor  affec- 
tion was  expressed  on  either  side.  The  mother  whispered 
her  instructions,  and  the  girl  received  them  with  her  pinched- 
up  half-starved  features  twisted  into  an  expression  of  careful 
cunning.  It  was  some  scheme  for  the  woman's  defence  that 
she  was  disclosing,  perhaps  ;  and  a  sullen  smile  came  over  the 
girl's  face  for  an  instant,  as  if  she  were  pleased  ;  not  so  much 
at  the  probability  of  her  mother's  liberation,  as  at  the  chance 
of  her  "  getting  off  "  in  spite  of  her  prosecutors.    The  dialogue 


A  VISIT  TO  NEWGATE. 


was  soon  concluded  ;  and  with  the  same  careless  indifference 
with  which  they  had  approached  each  other,  the  mother  turned 
towards  the  inner  end  of  the  yard,  and  the  girl  to  the  gate 
at  which  she  had  entered. 

The  girl  belonged  to  a  class — unhappily  but  too  extensive 
— the  very  existence  of  which  should  make  men's  hearts 
bleed.  Barely  past  her  childhood,  it  required  but  a  glance  to 
discover  that  she  was  one  of  those  children,  born  and  bred  in 
neglect  and  vice,  who  have  never  known  what  childhood  is ;  who 
have  never  been  taught  to  love  and  court  a  parent's  smile,  or  to 
dread  a  parent's  frown.  The  thousand  nameless  endearments 
of  childhood,  its  gayety  and  its  innocence,  are  alike  unknown  to 
them.  They  have  entered  at  once  upon  the  stern  realities  and 
miseries  of  life,  and  to  their  better  nature  it  is  almost  hopeless 
to  appeal  in  aftertimes,  by  any  of  the  references  which  will 
awaken,  if  it  be  only  for  a  moment,  some  good  feeling  in  ordi- 
nary bosoms,  however  corrupt  they  may  have  become.  Talk  to 
them  of  parental  solicitude,  the  happy  days  of  childhood,  and 
the  merry  games  of  infancy !  Tell  them  of  hunger  and  the 
streets,  beggary  and  stripes,  the  gin-shop,  the  station-house, 
and  the  pawnbroker's,  and  they  will  understand  you. 

Two  or  three  women  were  standing  at  different  parts  of 
the  grating,  conversing  with  their  friends,  but  a  very  large 
proportion  of  the  prisoners  appeared  to  have  no  friends  at  all, 
beyond  such  of  their*  old  companions  as  might  happen  to  be 
within  the  walls.  So,  passing  hastily  down  the  yard,  and 
pausing  only  for  an  instant  to  notice  the  little  incidents  we 
have  just  recorded,  we  were  conducted  up  a  clean  and  well- 
lighted  flight  of  stone  stairs  to  one  of  the  wards.  There  are 
several  in  this  part  of  the  building,  but  a  description  of  one 
is  a  description  of  the  whole. 

It  was  a  spacious,  bare,  whitewashed  apartment,  lighted 
of  course,  by  windows  looking  into  the  interior  of  the  prison, 
but  far  more  light  and  airy  than  one  could  reasonably  expect 
to  find  in  such  a  situation.  There  was  a  large  fire  with  a  deal 
table  before  it,  round  which  ten  or  a  dozen  women  were  seated 
on  wooden  forms  at  dinner.  Along  both  sides  of  the  room 
ran  a  shelf  ;  below  it,  at  regular  intervals,  a  row  of  large  hooks 
were  fixed  in  the  wall,  on  each  of  which  was  hung  the  sleep- 
ing mat  of  a  prisoner  :  her  rug  and  blanket  being  folded  up, 
and  placed  on  the  shelf  above.  At  night  these  mats  are 
placed  on  the  floor,  each  beneath  the  hook  on  which  it  hangs 
during  the  day ;  and  the  ward  is  thus  made  to  answer  the 


542 


SKETCHES  B  Y  BOZ, 


purposes  both  of  a  day-room  and  sleeping  apartment.  Ovei 
the  fireplace,  was  a  large  sheet  of  pasteboard,  on  which  were 
displayed  a  variety  of  texts  from  Scripture,  which  were  al^o 
scattered  about  the  room  in  scraps  about  the  size  and  shape 
of  the  copy-slips  which  are  used  in  schools.  On  the  table 
was  a  sufficient  provision  of  a  kind  of  stewed  beef  and  brown 
dread,  in  pewter  dishes,  which  are  kept  perfectly  bright  and 
displayed  on  shelves  in  great  order  and  regularity  when  they 
are  not  in  use. 

The  women  rose  hastily,  on  our  entrance,  and  retired  in  a 
hurried  manner  to  either  side  of  the  fireplace.  They  were  all 
cleanly — many  of  them  decently — attired,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing peculiar,  either  in  their  appearance  or  demeanor.  One  or 
two  resumed  the  needlework  which  they  had  probably  laid 
aside  at  the  commencement  of  their  meal ;  others  gazed  at 
the  visitors  with  listless  curiosity ;  and  a  few  retired  behind 
their  companions  to  the  very  end  of  the  room,  as  if  desirous 
to  avoid  even  the  casual  observation  of  the  strangers.  Some 
old  Irish  women,  both  in  this  and  other  wards,  to  whom  the 
thing  was  no  novelty,  appeared  perfectly  indifferent  to  our 
presence,  and  remained  standing  close  to  the  seats  from  which 
they  had  just  risen  ;  but  the  general  feeling  among  the  females 
seemed  to  be  one  of  uneasiness  during  the  period  of  our  stay 
among  them  :  which  was  very  brief.  Not  a  word  was  uttered 
during  the  time  of  our  remaining,  unless,  indeed,  by  the 
wardswoman  in  reply  to  some  question  which  we  put  to  the 
turnkey  who  accompanied  us.  In  every  ward  on  the  female 
side,  a  wardswoman  is  appointed  to  preserve  order,  and  a 
similar  regulation  is  adopted  among  the  males.  The  wards- 
men  and  wardswomen  are  all  prisoners,  selected  for  good  con- 
duct. They  alone  are  allowed  the  privilege  of  sleeping  on 
bedsteads  ;  a  small  stump  bedstead  being  placed  in  every 
ward  for  that  purpose.  On  both  sides  of  the  jail,  is  a  small 
receiving-room,  to  which  prisoners  are  conducted  on  their  first 
reception,  and  whence  they  cannot  be  removed  until  they  have 
been  examined  by  the  surgeon  of  the  prison.* 

Retracing  our  steps  to  the  dismal  passage  in  which  we 
found  ourselves  at  first  (and  which,  by  the  bye,  contains  three 
or  four  dark  cells  for  the  accommodation  of  refractory  pris- 
oners), we  were  led  through  a  narrow  yard  to  the  "  school  " — 

*  The  regulations  of  the  prison  relative  to  the  confinement  of  prisoners  during  the 
day,  their  sleeping  at  night,  their  taking  their  meals,  and  other  matters  of  jail  economy, 
have  been  all  altered — greatly  for  the  better — snice  this  sketch  was  first  published.  Even 
the  construction  of  the  prison  itself  has  been  changed* 


A  VISI  T  TO  N-EWGATE. 


543 


a  portion  of  the  prison  set  apart  for  boys  under  fourteen  years 
of  age.  In  a  tolerable-sized  room,  in  which  were  writing-ma- 
terials and  some  copy-books,  was  the  school-master,  with  a 
couple  of  his  pupils  ;  the  remainder  having  been  fetched  from 
an  adjoining  apartment,  the  whole  were  drawn  up  in  a  line  for 
our  inspection.  There  were  fourteen  of  them  in  all,  some  with 
shoes,  some  without ;  some  in  pinafores  without  jackets,  others 
in  jackets  without  pinafores,  and  one  in  scarce  anything  at 
all.  The  whole  number,  without  an  exception  we  believe,  had 
been  committed  for  trial  on  charges  of  pocket-picking ;  and 
fourteen  such  terrible  little  faces  we  never  beheld. — There 
was  not  one  redeeming  feature  among  them — not  a  glance  of 
honesty — not  a  wink  expressive  of  anything  but  the  gallows 
and  the  hulks,  in  the  whole  collection.  As  to  anything  like 
shame  or  contrition,  that  was  entirely  out  of  the  question. 
They  were  evidently  quite  gratified  at  being  thought  worth  the 
trouble  of  looking  at  ;  their  idea  appeared  to  be,  that  we  had 
come  to  see  Newgate  as  a  grand  affair,  and  that  they  were  an 
indispensable  part  of  the  show  ;  and  every  boy  as  he  fell 
in  "  to  the  line,  actually  seemed  as  pleased  and  important  as 
if  he  had  done  something  excessively  meritorious  in  getting 
there  at  all.  We  never  looked  upon  a  more  disagreeable 
sight,  because  we  never  saw  fourteen  such  hopeless  creatures 
of  neglect,  before. 

On  either  side  of  the  school-yard  is  a  yard  for  men,  in  one 
of  which  —  that  towards  Newgate-street  —  prisoners  of  the 
more  respectable  class  are  confined.  Of  the  other,  we  have 
little  description  to  offer,  as  the  different  wards  necessarily 
partake  of  the  same  character.  They  are  provided,  like  the 
wards  on  the  women's  side,  with  mats  and  rugs,  which  are  dis- 
posed of  in  the  same  manner  during  the  day;  the  only  very 
striking  difference  between  their  appearance  and  that  of  the 
wards  inhabited  by  the  females,  is  the  utter  absence  of  any 
employment.  Huddled  together  on  two  opposite  forms,  by 
the  fireside,  sit  twenty  men  perhaps ;  here,  a  boy  in  livery  : 
there,  a  man  in  a  rough  great-coat  and  top-boots;  farther  on. 
a  desperate-looking  fellow  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  with  an  old 
Scotch  cap  upon  his  shaggy  head  ;  near  him  again,  a  tall  ruf- 
fian, in  a  smock-frock ;  next  to  him,  a  miserable  being  of  dis- 
tressed appearance,  with  his  head  resting  on  his  hand  ; — all 
alike  in  one  respect,  all  idle  and  listless.  When  they  do  leave 
the  fire,  sauntering  moodily  about,  lounging  in  the  window,  or 
leaning  against  the  wall,  vacantly  swinging  their  bodies  to  and 


544 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


fro.  With  the  exception  of  a  man  reading  an  old  newspaper, 
in  two  or  three  instances,  this  was  the  case  in  every  ward  we 
entered. 

The  only  communication  these  men  have  with  their  friends, 
is  through  two  close  iron  gratings,  with  an  mtermediate  space 
of  about  a  yard  in  width  between  the  two,  so  that  nothing 
can  be  handed  across,  nor  can  the  prisoner  have  any  commu- 
nication by  touch  with  the  person  who  visits  him.  The  mar- 
ried men  have  a  separate  grating,  at  which  to  see  their  wives, 
but  its  construction  is  the  same. 

The  prison  chapel  is  situated  at  the  back  of  the  govxr..or's 
bouse  :  the  latter  having  no  windows  looking  into  the  inferior 
of  the  prison.  Whether  the  associations  connected  with  the 
place — the  knowledge  that  here  a  portion  of  the  burial  ser- 
vice is,  on  some  dreadful  occasions,  performed  over  the  quick 
and  not  upon  the  dead — cast  over  it  a  still  more  gloomy  and 
sombre  air  than  art  has  imparted  to  it,  we  know  not,  but  its 
appearance  is  very  striking.  There  is  something  in  a  silent 
and  deserted  place  of  worship,  solemn  and  impressive  at  any 
time  j  and  the  very  dissimilarity  of  this  one  from  any  we  have 
been  accustomed  to,  only  enhances  the  impression.  The 
meanness  of  its  appointments — the  bare  and  scanty  pulpit, 
with  the  paltry  painted  pillars  on  either  side — the  women's 
gallery  with  its  great  heavy  curtain — the  men's  with  its  un- 
painted  benches  and  dingy  front — the  tottering  little  table  at 
the  altar,  with  the  commandments  on  the  wall  above  it  scarcely 
legible  through  lack  of  paint,  and  dust  and  damp — so  unlike 
the  velvet  and  gilding,  the  marble  and  wood,  of  a  modern 
church — are  strange  and  striking.  There  is  one  object,  too, 
which  rivets  the  attention  and  fascinates  the  gaze,  and  from 
which  we  may  turn  horror-stricken  in  vain,  for  the  recollection 
of  it  will  haunt  us  waking  and  sleeping,  for  a  long  time  after- 
wards. Immediately  below  the  reading  desk,  on  the  floor  of 
the  chapel,  and  forming  the  most  conspicuous  object  in  its 
little  area,  is  the  condemned  pew ;  a  huge  black  pen,  in  which 
the  wretched  people,  who  are  singled  out  for  death,  are  placed 
on  the  Sunday  preceding  tlieir  execution,  in  sight  of  all  their 
fellow-prisoners,  from  many  of  whom  they  may  have  been 
separated  but  a  week  before,  to  hear  prayers  for  their  own 
souls,  to  join  in  the  responses  of  their  own  burial  service,  and 
to  listen  to  an  address,  warning  their  recent  companions  to 
take  example  by  their  fate,  and  urging  themselves,  while  there 
is  yet  time — nearly  four-and-twenty  hours — to  "  turn  and  flee 


A  VISIT  TO  NEWGATE. 


545 


from  the  wrath  to  come  !  Imagine  what  have  been  the  feel- 
ings of  the  men  whom  that  fearful  pew  has  enclosed,  and  of 
whom,  between  the  gallows  and  the  knife,  no  mortal  remnant 
may  now  remain !  Think  of  the  hopeless  clinging  to  life  to 
the  last,  and  the  wild  despair,  far  exceeding  in  anguish  the 
felon's  death  itself,  by  which  they  have  heard  the  certainty 
of  their  speedy  transmission  to  another  world,  with  all  their 
crimes  upon  their  heads,  rung  into  their  ears  by  the  officiating 
clergyman  ! 

At  one  time — and  at  no  distant  period  either — the  coffins 
of  the  men  about  to  be  executed,  were  placed  in  that  pew, 
upon  the  seat  by  their  side,  during  the  whole  service.  It  may 
seem  incredible,  but  it  is  true.  Let  us  hope  that  the  increased 
spirit  of  civilization  and  humanity  which  abolished  this  fright- 
ful and  degrading  custom,  may  extend  itself  to  other  usages 
equally  barbarous  ;  usages  which  have  not  even  the  plea  of 
utility  in  their  defence,  as  every  year's  experience  has  shown 
them  to  be  more  and  more  inefficacious. 

Leaving  the  chapel,  descending  to  the  passage  so  fre- 
quently alluded  to,  and  crossing  the  yard  before  noticed  as 
being  allotted  to  prisoners  of  a  more  respectable  description 
than  the  generality  of  men  confined  here,  the  visitor  arrives 
at  a  thick  iron  gate  of  great  size  and  strength.  Having  been 
admitted  through  it  by  the  turnkey  on  duty,  he  turns  sharp 
round  to  the  left  and  pauses  before  another  gate  ;  and, 
having  passed  this  last  barrier,  he  stands  in  the  most  terrible 
part  of  this  gloomy  building — the  condemned  ward. 

The  press-yard,  well  known  by  name  to  newspaper  readers, 
from  its  frequent  mention  in  accounts  of  executions,  is  at  the 
corner  of  the  building,  and  next  to  the  ordinary's  house,  in  New- 
gate-street :  running  from  Newgate-street,  towards  the  centre  ot 
the  prison,  parallel  with  Newgate-market.  It  is  a  long,  narrow 
court,  of  which  a  portion  of  the  wall  in  Newgate-street  forms 
one  end,  and  the  gate  the  other.  At  the  upper  end,  on  the 
left-hand — that  is,  adjoining  the  wall  in  Newgate-street — is  a 
cistern  of  water,  and  at  the  bottom  a  double  grating  (of  which 
the  gate  itself  forms  a  part)  similar  to  that  before  described. 
Through  these  grates  the  prisoners  are  allowed  to  see  their 
friends  ;  a  turnkey  always  remaining  in  the  vacant  space  be- 
tween, during  the  whole  interview.  Immediately  on  the  right 
as  you  enter,  is  a  building  containing  the  press-room,  day* 
room,  and  cells  ;  the  yard  is  on  every  side  surrounded  by  lofty 
walls  guarded  hy  chevaux  de  frise  ;  and  the  whole  is  under  the 
constant  inspection  of  vigilant  and  experienced  turnkeys. 


546 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


In  the  first  apartment  into  which  we  were  conducted — ■ 
which  was  at  the  top  of  a  staircase,  and  immediately  over  the 
press-room — were  five-and-twenty  or  thirty  prisoners,  all  under 
sentence  of  death,  awaiting  the  result  of  the  recorder's  re- 
port— men  of  all  ages  and  appearances,  from  a  hardened  old 
offender  with  swarthy  face  and  grizzly  beard  of  three  days' 
growth,  to  a  handsome  boy,  not  fourteen  years  old,  and  of 
singularly  youthful  appearance  even  for  that  age,  who  had 
been  condemned  for  burglary.  There  was  nothing  remark- 
able in  the  appearance  of  these  prisoners.  One  or  two 
decently-dressed  men  were  brooding  with  a  dejected  air  over 
the  fire  ;  several  little  groups  of  two  or  three  had  been  en- 
gaged in  conversation  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  or  in  the 
windows  ;  and  the  remainder  were  crowded  round  a  young 
man  seated  at  a  table,  who  appeared  to  be  engaged  in  teach- 
ing the  younger  ones  to  write.  The  room  was  large,  airy,  and 
clean.  There  was  very  little  anxiety  or  m.ental  suffering  de- 
picted in  the  countenance  of  any  of  the  men  ; — they  had  all 
been  sentenced  to  death,  it  is  true,  and  the  recorder's  report 
had  not  yet  been  made  ;  but,  we  question  whether  there  was  a 
man  among  them,  notwithstanding,  who  did  not  k7W7o  that 
although  he  had  undergone  the  ceremony,  it  never  was  in- 
tended that  his  life  should  be  sacrificed.  On  the  table  lay  a 
Testament,  but  there  were  no  tokens  of  its  having  been  in 
recent  use. 

In  the  press-room  below,  were  three  men,  the  nature  of 
whose  offence  rendered  it  necessary  to  separate  them,  even 
from  their  companions  in  guilt.  It  is  a  long,  sombre  room, 
with  two  windows  sunk  into  the  stone  wall,  and  here  the 
wretched  men  are  pinioned  on  the  morning  of  their  execution, 
before  moving  towards  the  scaffold.  The  fate  of  one  of  these 
prisoners  was  uncertain  ;  some  mitigatory  circumstances  hav- 
ing come  to  light  since  his  trial,  which  had  been  humanely 
represented  in  the  proper  quarter.  The  other  two  had  noth- 
ing to  expect  from  the  mercy  of  the  crown ;  their  doom  was 
sealed  ;  no  plea  could  be  urged  in  extenuation  of  their  crime, 
and  they  well  knew  that  for  them  there  was  no  hope  in  this 
world.  "  The  two  short  ones,"  the  turnkey  whispered,  were 
dead  men.*' 

The  man  to  whom  we  have  alluded  as  entertaining  some 
hopes  of  escape,  was  lounging,  at  the  greatest  distance  he 
could  place  between  himself  and  his  companions,  in  the  win- 
dow nearest  to  the  door.     He  was  probably  aware  of  our 


i  'JSiT  TO  NEWGATE. 


547 


tipproach,  and  had  assumed  an  air  of  courageous  indifference  \ 
ills  face  was  purposely  averted  towards  the  window,  and  he 
stirred  not  an  inch  while  we  were  present.  The  other  two 
men  were  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room.  One  of  them,  who 
was  imperfectly  seen  in  the  dim  light,  had  his  back  towards 
us,  and  was  stooping  over  the  fire,  with  his  right  arm  on  the 
mantel-piece,  and  his  head  sunk  upon  it.  The  other,  was 
leaning  on  the  sill  of  the  farthest  window.  The  light  fell  full 
upon  him,  and  communicated  to  his  pale,  haggard  face,>  and 
disordered  hair,  an  appearance  which,  at  that  distance,  was 
ghastly.  His  cheek  rested  upon  his  hand  ;  and,  with  his  face 
a  little  raised,  and  his  eyes  wildly  staring  before  him,  he 
seemed  to  be  unconsciously  intent  on  counting  the  chinks  in  the 
opposite  wall.  We  passed  this  room  again  afterwards.  The 
first  man  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  court  with  a  firm  mil- 
itary step — he  had  been  a  soldier  in  the  foot  guards — and  a 
cloth  cap  jauntily  thrown  on  one  side  of  his  head.  He  bowed 
respectfully  to  our  conductor,  and  the  salute  was  returned. 
The  other  two  still  remained  in  the  positions  we  have  de- 
scribed, and  were  as  motionless  as  statues. 

A  few  paces  up  the  yard,  and  forming  a  continuation  of 
the  building,  in  which  are  the  two  rooms  we  have  just  quitted, 
lie  the  condemned  cells.  The  entrance  is  by  a  narrow  and 
obscure  staircase  leading  to  a  dark  passage,  in  which  a  char- 
coal stove  casts  a  lurid  tint  over  the  objects  in  its  immediate 
vicinity,  and  diffuses  something  like  warmth  around.  From 
the  left-hand  side  of  this  passage,  the  massive  door  of  every 
cell  on  the  story  opens;  and  from  it  alone  can  they  be  ap- 
proached. There  are  three  of  these  passages,  and  three  of 
these  ranges  of  cells,  one  above  the  other ;  but  in  size,  furni- 
ture and  appearance,  they  are  all  precisely  alike.  Prior  to  the 
recorder's  report  being  made,  all  the  prisoners  under  sentence 
of  death  are  removed  from  the  day-room  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  and  locked  up  in  these  cells,  where  they  are  allowed 
a  candle  until  ten  o'clock  ;  and  here  they  remain  until  seven 
next  morning.  When  the  warrant  for  a  prisoner's  execution 
arrives,  he  is  removed  to  the  cells  and  confined  in  one  of  them 
until  he  leaves  it  for  the  scaffold.  He  is  at  liberty  to  walk  in 
the  yard  ;  but,  both  in  his  walks  and  in  his  cell,' he  is  con- 
stantly attended  by  a  turnkey  who  never  leaves  him  on  any 
pretence. 

*  These  two  men  were  executed  shortly  afterwards.  The  other  was  respited  du/  # 
Ills  Majesty's  pleasure. 


548 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 


We  entered  the  first  cell.  It  was  a  stone  dungeon,  eight 
feet  long  by  six  wide,  with  a  bench  at  the  upper  end,  undei 
which  were  a  common  rug,  a  bible,  and  prayer-book.  An  iron 
candlestick  was  fixed  into  the  wall  at  the  side ;  and  a  small 
hisfh  window  in  the  back  admitted  as  much  air  and  lio^ht  as 
could  struggle  in  between  a  double  row  of  heavy,  crossed  iron 
bars.    It  contained  no  other  furniture  of  any  description. 

Conceive  the  situation  of  a  man  spending  his  last  night 
on  earth  in  this  cell.  Buoyed  up  with  some  vague  and  un- 
defined  hope  of  reprieve,  he  knew  not  why — indulging  in  some 
wild  and  visionary  idea  of  escaping,  he  knew  not  how — hour 
after  hour  of  the  three  preceding  days  allowed  him  for 
preparation,  has  fled  with  a  speed  which  no  man  living  would 
deem  possible,  for  none  but  this  dying  man  can  know.  He 
has  wearied  his  friends  with  entreaties,  exhaus'ted  the  attend- 
ants with  importunities,  neglected  in  his  feverish  restlessness 
the  timely  warnings  of  his  spiritual  consoler  ;  and,  now  that 
the  illusion  is  at  last  dispelled,  now  that  eternity  is  before 
him  and  guilt  behind,  now  that  his  fears  of  death  amount  al- 
most to  madness,  and  an  overwhelming  sense  of  his  helpless, 
hopeless  state  rushes  upon  him,  he  is  lost  and  stupified,  and 
has  neither  thoughts  to  turn  to,  nor  power  to  call  upon,  the 
Almighty  Being,  from  whom  alone  he  can  seek  mercy  and 
forgiveness,  and  before  whom  his  repentance  can  alone  avail. 

Hours  have  glided  by,  and  still  he  sits  upon  the  same  stone 
bench  with  folded  arms,  heedless  alike  of  the  fast  decreasing 
time  before  him,  and  the  urgent  entreaties  of  the  good  man 
at  his  side.  The  feeble  light  is  wasting  gradually,  and  the 
deathlike  stillness  of  the  street  without,  broken  only  by  the 
rumbling  of  some  passing  vehicle  which  echoes  mournfully 
through  the  empty  yards,  warns  him  that  the  night  is  waning 
fast  away.  The  deep  bell  of  St.  Paul's  strikes — one  !  He 
heard  it ;  it  has  roused  him.  Seven  hours  left !  He  paces 
the  narrow  limits  of  his  cell  with  rapid  strides,  cold  drops  of 
terror  starting  on  his  forehead,  and  every  muscle  of  his  frame 
quivering  with  agony.  Seven  hours  !  He  suffers  himself  to 
be  led  to  his  seat,  mechanically  takes  the  bible  which  is  placed 
in  his  hand,  and  tries  to  read  and  listen.  No  :  his  thoughts 
will  wander.  The  book  is  torn  and  soiled  by  use — and  like 
the  book  he  read  his  lessons  in,  at  school,  just  forty  years 
ago  !  He  has  never  bestowed  a  thought  upon  it,  perhaps, 
since  he  left  it  as  a  child :  and  yet  the  place,  the  time,  the 
room — nay,  the  very  boys  he  played  with,  crowd  as  vividlj 


A  VISIT  TO  NEWGATE, 


549 


before  him  as  if  they  were  scenes  of  yesterday  ;  and  some  for- 
gotten phrase,  some  childish  word,  rings  in  his  ears  like  the 
echo  of  one  uttered  but  a  minute  since.  The  voice  of  the 
clergyman  recalls  him  to  himself.  He  is  reading  from  the 
sacred  book  its  solemn  promises  of  pardon  for  repentance  and 
its  awful  denunciation  of  obdurate  men.  He  falls  upon  his 
knees  and  clasps  his  hands  to  pray.  Hush  !  what  sound  was 
that  1  He  starts  upon  his  feet.  It  cannot  be  two  yet.  Hark  1 
Two  quarters  have  struck; — the  third — the  fourth.  It  is! 
Six  hours  left.  Tell  him  not  of  repentance  1  Six  hours'  re- 
pentance for  eight  times  six  years  of  guilt  and  sin  !  He  buries 
his  face  in  his  hands,  and  throws  himself  on  the  bench. 

Worn  with  watching  and  excitement,  he  sleeps,  and  the 
same  unsettled  state  of  mind  pursues  him  in  his  dreams.  An 
insupportable  load  is  taken  from  his  breast ;  he  is  walking  with 
his  wife  in  a  pleasant  field,  with  the  bright  sky  above  them, 
and  afresh  and  boundless  prospect  on  every  side — how  differ 
ent  from  the  stone  walls  of  Newgate  !  She  is  looking — not  as 
she  did  when  he  saw  her  for  the  last  time  in  that  dreadful 
place,  but  as  she  used  when  he  loved  her — long,  long  ago, 
before  misery  and  ill-treatment  had  altered  her  looks,  and  vice 
had  changed  his  nature,  and  she  is  leaning  upon  his  arm,  and 
looking  up  into  his  face  with  tenderness  and  affection — and 
he  does  7/^/  strike  her  now,  nor  rudely  shake  her  from  him. 
And  oh  !  how  glad  he  is  to  tell  her  all  he  had  forgotten  in  that 
last  hurried  interview,  and  to  fall  on  his  knees  before  her  and 
fervently  beseech  her  pardon  for  all  the  unkindness  and 
cruelty  that  wasted  her  form  and  broke  her  heart  !  The  scene 
suddenly  changes.  He  is  on  his  trial  again  :  there  are  the 
judge  and  jury,  and  prosecutors,  and  witnesses,  just  as  they 
were  before.  How  full  the  court  is — what  a  sea  of  heads — 
with  a  gallows,  too,  and  a  scaffold — and  how  all  those  people 
stare  at  hini  !  Verdict,  "  Guilty."  No  matter  ;  he  will  es- 
cape. 

The  night  is  dark  and  cold,  the  gates  have  been  left  open, 
and  in  an  instant  he  is  in  the  street,  flying  from  the  scene  of 
his  imprisonment  like  the  wind.  The  streets  are  cleared,  the 
open  fields  are  gained  and  the  broad  wide  country  lies  before 
him.  Onward  he  dashes  in  the  midst  of  darkness,  over  hedge 
and  ditch,  through  mud  and  pool,  bounding  from  spot  to  spot 
with  a  speed  and  lightness,  astonishing  even  to  himself.  At 
length  he  pauses ;  he  must  be  safe  from  pursuit  now ;  he  wilJ 
stretch  himself  on  that  bank  and  sleep  till  sunrise. 


55° 


SKE TCHES  BY  BOZ. 


A  period  of  unconsciousness  succeeds.  He  wakes  cold, 
and  wretched.  The  dull  gray  light  of  morning  is  stealing  into 
the  cell,  and  falls  upon  the  form  of  the  attendant  turnkey. 
Confused  by  his  dreams,  he  starts  from  his  uneasy  bed  in 
momentary  uncertainty.  It  is  but  momentary.  Every  object 
in  the  narrow  cell  is  too  frightfully  real  to  admit  of  doubt  or 
mistake.  He  is  the  condemned  felon  again,  guilty  and 
despairing ;  and  in  two  hours  more  will  be  dead. 


CHARACTERS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THOUGHTS  ABOUT  PEOPLE. 

It  is  strange  with  how  little  notice,  good,  bad,  or  indiffer- 
ent, a  man  may  live  and  die  in  London.  He  awakes  no  sym- 
pathy in  the  breast  of  any  single  person ;  his  existence  is  a 
matter  of  interest  to  no  one  save  himself ;  he  cannot  be  said 
to  be  forgotten  when  he  dies,  for  no  one  remembered  him 
when  he  was  alive.  There  is  a  numerous  class  of  jDCople  in 
this  great  metropolis  who  seem  not  to  possess  a  single  friend, 
and  whom  nobody  appears  to  care  for.  Urged  by  imperative 
necessity  in  the  first  instance,  they  have  resorted  to  London  in 
search  of  employment,  and  the  means  of  subsistence.  It  is 
hard,  we  know,  to  break  the  ties  which  bind  us  to  our  homes 
and  friends,  and  harder  still  to  efface  the  thousand  recollec- 
tions of  happy  days  and  old  times,  which  have  been  slumber- 
ing in  our  bosoms  for  years,  and  only  rush  upon  the  mind,  to 
bring  before  it  associations  connected  with  the  friends  we 
have  left,  the  scenes  we  have  beheld  too  probably  for  the  last 
time,  and  the  hopes  we  once  cherished,  but  may  entertain  no 
more.  These  men,  however,  happily  for  themselves,  have 
long  forgotten  such  thoughts.  Old  country  friends  have  died 
or  emigrated  ;  former  correspondents  have  become  lost,  like 
themselves,  in  the  crowd  and  turmoil  of  some  busy  city;  and 


THOUGHTS  ABOUT  PEOPLE. 


they  have  gradually  settled  down  into  mere  passive  creatures 
of  habit  and  endurance. 

We  were  seated  in  the  enclosure  of  St.  James's  Park  the 
other  day,  when  our  attention  was  attracted  by  a  man  whom 
we  immediately  put  down  in  our  own  mind  as  one  of  this 
class.  He  was  a  tall,  thin,  pale  person,  in  a  black  coat,  scanty 
gray  trousers,  little  pinched-up  gaiters,  and  brown  beaver 
gloves.  He  had  an  umbrella  in  his  hand — not  for  use,  for  the 
day  was  fine — but,  evidently,  because  he  always  carried  one 
to  the  office  in  the  morning.  He  walked  up  and  down  before 
the  little  patch  of  grass  on  which  the  chairs  are  placed  for 
hire,  not  as  if  he  were  doing  it  for  pleasure  or^  recreation,  but 
as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  compulsion,  just  as  he  would  walk  to 
the  office  every  morning  from  the  back  settlements  of  Isling- 
ton. It  was  Monday  ;  he  had  escaped  for  four-and-twenty 
hours  from  the  thraldom  of  the  desk  ;  and  was  walking  here 
for  exercise  and  amusement — perhaps  for  the  first  tlir.e  in  his 
life.  We  were  inclined  to  think  he  had  never  had  a  holiday 
before,  and  that  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  himself. 
Children  were  playing  on  the  grass  ;  groups  of  people  were 
loitering  about,  chatting  and  laughing  ;  but  the  man  walked 
steadily  up  and  down,  unheeding  and  unheeded,  his  spare  pale 
face  looking  as  if  it  were  incapable  of  bearing  the  expression 
of  curiosity  or  interest. 

There  was  something  in  the  man's  manner  and  appear- 
ance which  told  us,  we  fancied,  his  whole  life,  or  rather  his 
whole  day,  for  a  man  of  this  sort  has  no  variety  of  days.  We 
thought  we  almost  saw  the  dingy  little  back  office  into  which 
he  walks  every  morning,  hangmg  his  hat  on  the  same  peg,  and 
placing  his  legs  beneath  the  same  desk :  first,  taking  off  that 
black  coat  which  lasts  the  year  through,  and  putting  on  the 
one  which  did  duty  last  year,  and  which  he  keeps  in  his  desk 
to  save  the  other.  There  he  sits  till  five  o'clock,  working  on, 
all  day,  as  regularly  as  the  dial  over  the  mantel-piece,  whose 
loud  ticking  is  as  monotonous  as  his  whole  existence  :  only 
raising  his  head  when  some  one  enters  the  counting-house,  ot 
when  in  the  midst  of  some  difficult  calculation,  he  looks  up  to 
the  ceiling  as  if  there  were  inspiration  in  the  dusty  skylight 
with  a  green  knot  in  the  centre  of  every  pane  of  glass.  About 
five,  or  half-past,  he  slowly  dismounts  from  his  accustomed 
stool,  and  again  changing  his  coat,  proceeds  to  his  usual  din- 
ing-pkce,  somewhere  near  Bucklersbury.  The  waiter  recites 
the  bill  of  fare  in  a  rather  confidential  manner — ^for  he  is  a 
24 


552 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


regular  customer — and  after  inquiring  "  What's  in  the  best 
cut  ?  "  and  "  What  was  up  last  ?  "  he  orders  a  small  plate  of 
roast  beef,  with  greens,  and  half-a-pint  of  porter.  He  has  a 
small  plate  to-day,  because  greens  are  a  penny  more  than  pota- 
toes, and  he  had  ^'two  breads  '*  yesterday,  with  the  additional 
enormity  of  a  cneese  "  the  day  before.  This  important  point 
settled,  he  hangs  up  his  hat — he  took  it  off  tl:e  moment  he  sat 
down — and  bespeaks  the  paper  after  the  next  gentleman.  If 
he  can  get  it  while  he  is  at  dinner,  he  eats  with  much  greater 
zest ;  balancing  it  against  the  water-bottle,  and  eating  a  bit 
of  beef,  and  reading  a  line  or  two,  alternately.  Exactly  at 
five  minutes  before  the  hour  is  up,  he  produces  a  shilling, 
pays  the  reckoning,  carefully  deposits  the  change  in  his  waist- 
coat-pocket (first  deducting  a  penny  for  the  waiter),  and  re- 
turns to  the  ofiice,  from  which,  if  it  is  not  foreign  post  night, 
he  again  sallies  forth  in  about  half  an  hour.  He  then  walks 
home,  at  his  usual  pace,  to  his  little  back  room  at  Islington, 
where  he  has  his  tea ;  perhaps  solacing  himself  during  the 
meal  with  the  conversation  of  his  landlady's  little  boy,  whom 
he  occasionally  rewards  with  a  penny,  for  solving  problems  in 
simple  addition.  Sometimes,  there  is  a  letter  or  two  to  take 
up  to  his  employer's,  in  Russell-sqfuare  ;  and  then,  the  wealthy 
man  of  business,  hearing  his  voice,  calls  out  from  the  dining- 
parlor, — Come  in,  Mr.  Smith  and  Mr.  Smith,  putting  his 
hat  at  the  feet  of  one  of  the  hall  chairs,  w^alks  timidly  in,  and 
being  condescendingly  desired  to  sit  down,  carefully  tucks  his 
legs  under  his  chair,  and  sits  at  a  considerable  distance  from 
the  table  while  he  drinks  the  glass  of  sherry  which  is  poured 
out  for  him  by  the  eldest  boy,  and  after  drinking  which,  he 
backs  and  slides  out  of  the  room,  in  a  state  of  nervous  agita- 
tion from  which  he  does  not  perfectly  recover,  until  he  finds 
himself  once  more  in  the  Islington-road.  Poor,  harmless 
creatures  such  men  are  ;  contented  but  not  happy ;  broken- 
spirited  and  humbled,  they  may  feel  no  pain,  but  they  never 
know  pleasure. 

Compare  these  men  with  another  class  of  beings  who,  like 
them,  have  neither  friend  nor  companion,  but  whose  position 
in  society  is  the  result  of  their  own  choice.  These  are  gen- 
erally old  fellows  with  white  heads  and  red  faces,  addicted  to 
port  wine  and  Hessian  boots,  who  from  some  cause,  real  or 
imaginary — generally  the  former,  the  excellent  reason  being 
that  they  are  rich,  and  their  relations  poor — grow  suspicious 
of  everybody,  and  do  the  misanthropical  in  chambers,  taking 


THOUGHTS  ABOUT  PEOPLE 


553 


great  delight  in  thinking  themselves  unhappy,  and  making 
everybody  they  come  near,  miserable.  You  may  see  such 
men  as  these,  anywhere  ;  you  will  know  them  at  coffee-houses 
by  their  discontented  exclamations  and  the  luxury  of  their 
dinners ;  at  theatres,  by  their  always  sitting  in  the  same 
place  and  looking  with  a  jaundiced  eye  on  all  the  young 
people  near  them  ;  at  church,  by  the  pomposity  with  which  they 
enter,  and  the  loud  tone  in  which  they  repeat  the  responses  \ 
at  parties,  by  their  getting  cross  at  whist,  and  hating  music. 
An  old  fellow  of  this  kind  will  have  his  chambers  splendidly 
furnished,  and  collect  books,  plate,  and  pictures  about  him 
in  profusion ;  not  so  much  for  his  own  gratification,  as  to  be 
superior  to  those  who  have  the  desire,  but  not  the  means,  to 
compete  with  him.  He  belongs  to  two  or  three  clubs,  and  is 
envied,  and  flattered,  and  hated  by  the  members  of  them  all. 
Sometimes  he  will  be  appealed  to  by  a  poor  relation — a  mar- 
ried nephew  perhaps — for  some  little  assistance  :  and  then  he 
will  declaim  with  honest  indignation  on  the  improvidence  of 
young  married  people,  the  worthlessness  of  a  wife,  the  insolence 
of  having  a  family,  the  atrocity  of  getting  into  debt  with  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five  pounds  a-year,  and  other  unpardonable 
crimes  ;  winding  up  his  exhortations  with  a  complacent  re- 
view of  his  own  conduct,  and  a  delicate  allusion  to  parochial 
relief.  He  dies,  some  day  after  dinner,  of  apoplexy,  having 
bequeathed  his  property  to  a  Public  Society,  and  the  Institu- 
tion erects  a  tablet  to  his  memory,  expressive  of  their  admira- 
tion of  his  Christian  conduct  in  this  world,  and  their  com- 
fortable conviction  of  his  happiness  in  the  next. 

But,  next  to  our  very  particular  friends,  hackney-coach- 
men, cabmen  and  cads,  whom  we  admire  in  proportion  to  the 
extent  of  their  cool  impudence  and  perfect  self-possession, 
there  is  no  class  of  people  who  amuse  us  more  than  London 
apprentices.    They  are  no  longer  an  organized  body,  bound 
down  by  solemn  compact  to  terrify  his  majesty's  subjects 
whenever  it  pleases  them  to  take  offence  in  their  heads  andi 
staves  in  their  hands.    They  are  only  bound,  now,  by  inden-| 
tures-;  and,  as  to  their  valor,  it  is  easily  restrained  by  the' 
wholesome  dread  of  the  New  Police,  and  a  perspective  view 
of  a  damp  station-house,  terminating  in  a  police-office  and  a 
reprimand.    They  are  still,  however,  a  peculiar  class,  and  not 
the  less  pleasant  for  being  inoffensive.    Can  any  one  fail  to 
have  noticed  them  in  the  streets  on  Sunday  }    And  were  there 
ever  such  harmless  efforts  at  the  grand  and  magnificent  as  , 


554 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


the  young  fellows  display  !  We  walked  down  the  Strand,  3 
Sunday  or  two  ago,  behind  a  little  group  ;  and  they  furnished 
food  for  our  amusement  the  whole  way.  They  had  come  out 
of  some  part  of  the  city  ;  it  Vv^as  between  three  and  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  ;  and  they  were  on  their  way  to  the 
Park.  There  were  four  of  them,  all  arm-in-arm,  with  white 
kid  gloves  like  so  many  bridegrooms,  light  trousers  of  unpre- 
cedented patterns,  and  coats  for  which  the  English  language 
has  yet  no  name — a  kind  of  cross  between  a  great-coat  and  a 
surtout,  with  the  collar  of  the  one,  the  skirts  of  the  other,  and 
pockets  peculiar  to  themselves. 

Each  of  the  gentlemen  carried  a  thick  stick,  with  a  large 
tassel  at  the  top,  which  he  occasionally  twirled  gracefully 
round ;  and  the  whole  four,  by  way  of  looking  easy  and  un- 
concerned, were  walking  with  a  paralytic, swagger  irresistibly 
ludicrous.  One  of  the  party  had  a  watch  ^bout  the  size  and 
shape  of  a  reasonable  Ribstone  pippin,  jammed  into  his 
waistcoat-pocket,  which  he  carefully  compared  Vv^ith  the  clocks 
at  St.  Clement's  and  the  New  Church,  the  illuminated  clock 
at  Exeter  'Change,  the  clock  of  St.  Martin's  Church,  and  the 
clock  of  the  Horse  Guards.  When  they  at  last  arrived  in 
Saint  James's  Park,  the  member  of  the  party  who  had  the 
best  made  boots  on,  hired  a  second  chair  expressly  for  his 
feet,  and  flung  himself  on  this  two-pennyworth  of  sylvan 
luxury  with  an  air  which  levelled  all  distinctions  between 
Brookes's  and  Snooks's,  Crockford's  and  Bagnigge  Weils. 

We  may  smile  at  such  people,  but  they  can  never  excite 
our  anger.  They  are  usually  on  the  best  terms  with  them- 
selves, and  it  follows  almost  as  a  matter  of  course,  in  good 
humor  with  everyone  about  them.  Besides,  they  are  always 
the  faint  reflection  of  higher  lights  ;  and,  if  they  do  display  a 
little  occasional  foolery  in  their  own  proper  persons,  it  is 
surely  mere  tolerable  than  precocious  puppyism  in  the  Quad^ 
rant,  whiskered  dandyism  in  Regent-street  and  Pall-mall,  01 
gallantry  xu  iU  dotage  anywhere. 


A  CHRISTMAS  DINNER, 


555 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  CHPwISTMAS  DINNER. 

Christmas  time  !  That  man  must  be  a  misanthrope  in- 
deed, in  whose  breast  something  Hke  a  jovial  feeling  is  not 
roused — in  whose  mind  some  pleasant  associations  are  not 
awakened  —  by  the  recurrence  of  Christmas.  There  are 
people  who  will  tell  you  that  Christmas  is  not  to  them  what  it 
used  to  be ;  that  each  succeeding  Christmas  has  found  some 
cherished  hope,  or  happy  prospect,  of  the  year  before, 
dimmed  or  passed  away  ;  that  the  present  only  serves  to 
remind  them  of  reduced  circumstances  and  straitened  in- 
comes— of  the  feasts  they  once  bestowed  on  hollow  friends, 
and  of  the  cold  looks  that  meet  them  now,  in  adversity  and 
misfortune.  Never  heed  such  dismal  reminiscences.  There 
are  few  men  who  have  lived  long  enough  in  the  world,  who 
cannot  call  up  such  thoughts  any  day  in  the  year.  Then  do 
not  select  the  merriest  of  the  three  hundred  and  sixty-five, 
for  your  doleful  recollections,  but  draw  your  chair  nearer  the 
blazing  fire — fill  the  glass  and  send  round  the  song — and  if 
your  room  be  smaller  than  it  was  a  dozen  years  ago,  or  if 
your  glass  be  filled  with  reeking  punch,  instead  of  sparkling 
wine,  put  a  good  face  on  the  matter,  and  empty  it  off-hand, 
and  fill  another,  and  troll  off  the  old  ditty  you  used  to  sing, 
and  thank  God  it's  no  worse.  Look  on  the  merry  faces  of 
your  children  (if  you  have  any)  as  they  sit  roun  1  the  fire. 
One  little  seat  may  be  empty ;  one  slight  form  that  glad- 
dened the  father's  heart,  and  roused  the  mother's  pride  to 
look  upon,  may  not  be  there.  Dwell  not  upon  the  past ; 
think  not  that  one  short  year  ago,  the  fair  child  now  resolving 
into  dust,  sat  before  you,  with  the  bloom  of  health  upon  its 
cheek,  and  the  gayety  of  infancy  in  its  joyous  eye.  Reflect 
upon  your  present  blessings — of  which  every  man  has  mar.y 
— not  on  your  past  misfortunes,  of  which  all  men  have  some. 
Fill  your  glass  again,  with  a  merry  face  and  contented  heart. 
Our  life  on  it,  but  your  Christmas  shall  be  merry,  and  youi 
new  year  a  happy  one  I 

Who  can  be  insensible  to  the  outpourings  of  good  feeling, 
•and  the  honest  interchange  of  affectionate  attachment,  which 


556 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


abound  at  this  season  of  the  year  ?  A  Christmas  family- 
party  !  We  know  nothing  in  nature  more  deUghtful !  There 
seems  a  magic  in  the  very  name  of  Christmas.  Petty 
jealousies  and  discords  are  forgotten  ;  social  feelings  are 
awakened,  in  bosoms  to  which  they  have  long  been  strangers  ; 
father  and  son,  or  brother  and  sister,  who  have  met  anc'. 
passed  with  averted  gaze,  or  a  look  of  cold  recognition,  for 
months  before,  proffer  and  return  the  cordial  embrace,  and 
bury  their  past  animosities  in  their  present  happiness.  Kindly 
hearts  that  have  yearned  towards  each  other,  but  have  been 
withheld  by  false  notions  of  pride  and  self-dignity,  are  again 
reunited,  and  all  is  kindness  and  benevolence  !  Would  that 
Christmas  lasted  the  whole  year  through  (as  it  ought),  and 
that  the  prejudices  and  passions  which  deform  our  better 
nature,  were  never  called  into  action  among  those  to  whom 
they  should  ever  be  strangers  ! 

The  Christmas  family-party  that  we  mean,  is  not  a  mere 
assemblage  of  relations,  got  up  at  a  week  or  two's  notice, 
originating  this  year,  having  no  family  precedent  in  the  last, 
and  not  likely  to  be  repeated  in  the  next.  No.  It  is  an  an- 
nual gathering  of  all  the  accessible  members  of  the  family, 
young  or  old,  rich  or  poor  ^  and  all  the  children  look  forward 
to  it  for  two  months  beforehand,  in  a  fever  of  anticipation. 
Formerly,  it  was  held  at  grandpapa's ;  but  grandpapa  getting 
old,  and  grandmamma  getting  old  too,  and  rather  infirm,  they 
have  given  up  housekeeping,  and  domesticated  themselves 
with  uncle  George  ;  so,  the  party  always  takes  place  at  uncle 
George's  house,  but  grandmamma  sends  in  most  of  the  good 
things,  and  grandpapa  always  will  toddle  down,  all  the  way 
to  Newgate-market,  to  buy  the  turkey,  which  he  engages  a 
porter  to  bring  home  behind  him  in  triumph,  always  insisting 
on  the  man's  being  rewarded  with  a  glass  of  spirits,  over  and 
above  his  hire,  to  drink  a  merry  Christmas  and  a  happy  new 
year"  to  aunt  George.  As  to  grandmamma,  she  is  very 
secret  and  mysterious  for  two  or  three  days  beforehand,  but 
not  sufficiently  so,  to  prevent  rumors  getting  afloat  that  she 
has  purchased  a  beautiful  new  cap  with  pink  ribbons  for  each 
of  the  servants,  together  with  sundry  books,  and  pen-knives, 
and  pencil-cases,  for  the  younger  branches  ;  to  say  nothing  of 
divers  secret  additions  to  the  order  originally  given  by  aunt 
George  at  the  pastry-cook's,  such  as  another  dozen  of  mince- 
pies  for  the  dinner,  and  a  large  plum-cake  for  the  children^ 

On  Christmas-eve,  grandmamma  is  always  in  excellent 


A  CHRISTMAS  DINNER, 


557 


Spirits,  and  after  employing  all  the  children,  during  the  day,  in 
stoning  the  plums,  and  all  that,  insists,  regularly  every  year, 
on  uncle  George  coming  down  into  the  kitchen,  taking  off  his 
coat,  and  stirring  the  pudding  for  half  an  hour  or  so,  which 
uncle  George  good-humoredly  does,  to  the  vociferous  delight 
of  the  children  and  servants.  The  evening  concludes  with  a 
glorious  game  of  blind-man's-buff,  in  an  early  stage  of  which 
grandpapa  takes  great  care  to  be  caught,  in  order  that  he  may 
have  an  opportunity  of  displaying  his  dexterity. 

On  the  following  morning,  the  old  couple,  with  as  manv  of 
the  children  as  the  pew  will  hold,  go  to  church  in  great  state  : 
leaving  aunt  George  at  home  dusting  decanters  and  filling 
castors,  and  uncle  George  carrying  bottles  into  the  dining- 
parlor,  and  calling  for  corkscrews,  and  getting  into  everybody's 
way. 

When  the  church-party  returned  to  lunch,  grandpapa  pro- 
duces a  small  sprig  of  mistletoe  from  his  pocket,  and  tempts 
the  boys  to  kiss  their  little  cousins  under  it — a  proceeding 
which  affords  both  the  boys  and  the  old  gentleman  unlimited 
satisfaction,  but  which  rather  outrages  grandmamma's  ideas  of 
decorum,  until  grandpapa  says,  that  when  he  was  just  thir- 
teen years  and  three  months  old,  he  kissed  grandmamma  under 
a  mistletoe  too,  on  which  the  children  clap  their  hands,  and 
laugh  very  heartily,  as  do  aunt  George  and  uncle  George  ;  and 
grandmamma  looks  pleased,  and  says,  with  a  benevolent  smile, 
that  grandpapa  was  an  impudent  young  dog,  on  which  the 
children  laugh  very  heartily  again,  and  grandpapa  more 
heartily  than  any  of  them. 

But  all  these  diversions  are  nothing  to  the  subsequent 
excitement  when  grandmamma  in  a  high  cap,  and  slate- 
colored  silk  gown  ;  and  grandpapa  with  a  beautifully  plaited 
shirt-frill,  and  white  neckerchief ;  seat  themselves  on  one  side 
of  the  drawing-room  fire,  with  uncle  George's  children  and 
little  cousins  innumerable,  seated  in  the  front,  waiting  the 
arrival  of  the  expected  visitors.  Suddenly  a  hackney-coach  is 
heard  to  stop,  and  uncle  George,  w^ho  has  been  looking  out  of 
the  window,  exclaims  "  Here's  Jane  !  "  on  which  the  children 
rush  to  the  door,  and  helter-skelter  down  stairs  ;  and  uncle 
Robert  and  aunt  Jane,  and  the  dear  little  baby,  and  the  nurse, 
and  the  whole  party,  are  ushered  up  stairs  amidst  tumultuous 
shouts  of  "  Oh,  my  !  "  from  the  children,  and  frequently  re- 
peated warnings  not  to  hurt  baby  from  the  nurse.  And  grand- 
papa takes  the  child,  and  grandmamma  kisses  her  daughteii 


558 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


and  the  confusion  of  this  first  entry  has  scarcely  subsided, 
when  some  other  aunts  and  uncles  with  more  cousins  arrive, 
and  the  grown-up  cousins  flirt  with  each  other,  and  so  do  the 
little  cousins  too,  for  that  matter,  and  nothing  is  to  be  heard 
but  a  confused  din  of  talking,  laughing,  and  merriment. 

A  hesitating  double  knock  at  the  street-door,  heard  during 
a  momentary  pause  in  the  conversation,  excites  a  general  in- 
quiry of  Who's  that  ?  "  and  two  or  three  children,  who  have 
been  standing  at  the  window,  announce  in  a  low  voice,  that 
it's  "  poor  aunt  Margaret.'^  Upon  which,  aunt  George  leaves 
the  room  to  welcome  the  newcomer;  and  grandmamma  draws 
herself  up,  rather  stiff  and  stately  :  for  Margaret  married  a 
poor  man  without  her  consent,  and  poverty  not  being  a  suffi- 
ciently weighty  punishment  for  her  offence,  has  been  discard- 
ed by  her  friends,  and  debarred  the  society  of  her  dearest 
relatives.  But  Christmas  has  come  round,  and  the  unkind 
feelings  that  have  struggled  against  better  dispositions  during 
the  year,  have  melted  away  before  its  genial  influence,  like 
half-formed  ice  beneath  the  morning  sun.  It  is  not  difhcult  in 
a  moment  of  angry  feeling  for  a  parent  to  denounce  a  dis- 
obedient child  ;  but,  to  banish  her  at  a  period  of  general  good- 
will and  hilarity,  from  the  hearth,  round  which  she  has  sat  on 
so  many  anniversaries  of  the  same  day,  expanding  by  slow 
degrees  from  infancy  to  girlhood,  and  then  bursting,  almost 
imperceptibly,  into  a  woman,  is  widely  different.  The  air  of 
conscious  rectitude,  and  cold  forgiveness,  which  the  old  lady 
has  assumed,  sits  ill  upon  her :  and  when  the  poor  girl  is  led 
in  by  her  sister,  pale  in  looks  and  broken  in  hope — not  from 
poverty,  for  that  she  could  bear,  but  from  the  consciousness 
of  undeserved  neglect,  and  unmerited  unkindncss — it  is  easy 
to  see  how  nmch  of  it  is  assumed.  A  momentar^^  pause 
succeeds ;  the  girl  breaks  suddenly  from  her  sister  and  throws 
herself,  sobbing,  on  her  mother's  neck.  The  father  steps 
hastily  forward,  and  takes  her  husband's  hand.  Friends  crowd 
round  to  offer  their  hearty  congratulations,  and  happiness  and 
harmony  again  prevail. 

As  to  the  dinner,  it's  perfectly  delightful — nothing  goes 
wrong,  and  everybody  is  in  the  very  best  of  spirits,  and  dis- 
posed to  please  and  be  pleased.  Grandpapa  relates  a  cir- 
cumstantial account  of  the  purchase  of  the  turkey,  wdth  a  slight 
digression  relative  to  the  purchase  of  previous  turkeys,  on 
former  Ghristmas-days,  which  grandmamma  corroborates  in 
the  minutest  particular.    Uncle  George  tells  stories,  and 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 


559 


carves  poultry,  and  takes  wine,  and  jokes  with  the  children  at 
the  side-table,  and  winks  at  the  cousins  that  are  making  love, 
or  being  made  love  to,  and  exhilarates  everybody  with  his 
goodhumor,  and  hospitality  ;  and  wdien,  at  last,  a  stout  ser- 
vant, staggers  in  with  a  gigantic  pudding,  with  a  sprig  of  holly 
in  the  top,  there  is  such  a  laughing,  and  shouting,  and  clap- 
ping  of  little  chubby  hands,  and  kicking  up  of  fat  dumpy  legs, 
as  can  only  be  equalled  by  the  applause  with  which  the 
astonishing  feat  of  pouring  lighted  brandy  into  mince-pies,  is 
received  by  the  younger  visitors.  Then  the  dessert  ! — and  the 
wine  ! — and  the  fun  !  Such  beautiful  speeches,  and  such 
songs,  from  aunt  Margaret's  husband,  who  turns  out  to  be 
such  a  nice  man,  and  so  attentive  to  grandmamma !  Even 
grandpapa  not  only  sings  his  annual  song  with  unprecedented 
vigor,  but  on  being  honored  w^ith  an  unanimous  encore^  accord- 
ing to  annual  custom,  actually  comes  out  with  a  new  one 
which  nobody  but  grandmamma  e\  er  heard  before  ;  and  a 
young  scape-grace  of  a  cousin,  v;bo  has  been  in  some  disgrace 
with  the  old  people,  for  certain  heinous  sins  of  omission  and 
commission — neglecting  to  call,  and  persisting  in  drinking 
Burton  Ale — astonishes  everybody  into  convulsions  of  laughter 
by  volunteering  the  most  extraordinary  comic  songs  that  ever 
were  heard.  And  thus  the  evening  passes,  in  a  strain  of 
rational  good-will  and  cheerfulness,  doing  more  to  awaken  the 
sympathies  of  every  member  of  the  party  in  behalf  of  his 
neighbor,  and  to  perpetuate  their  good  feeling  during  the 
ensuing  year,  than  half  the  homilies  that  have  ever  been 
written,  by  half  the  Divines  that  have  ever  lived. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THENEWYEAR. 

Next  to  Christmas-day,  the  most  pleasant  annual  epoch 
in  existence  is  the  advent  of  the  New  Year.  There  are  a 
lachrymose  set  of  people  who  usher  in  the  New  Year  with 
watching  and  fasting,  as  if  they  were  bound  to  attend  as  chief 
mourners  at  the  obsequies  of  the  old  one.  Now,  we  cannot 
but  think  it  a  great  deal  more  complimentary,  both  to  the  old 


560 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 


year  that  has  rolied  away,  and  to  the  New  Year  that  is  just 
beginning  to  dawn  upon  us,  to  see  the  old  fellow  out,  and 
the  new  one  in,  with  gayety  and  glee. 

There  must  have  been  some  few  occurrences  in  the  past 
year  to  which  we  can  look  back,  with  a  smile  of  cheerful  rec- 
ollection, if  not  with  a  feeling  of  heartfelt  thankfulness.  And 
we  are  bound  by  every  rule  of  justice  and  equity  to  give  the 
New  Year  credit  for  being  a  good  one,  until  he  proves  him- 
self unworthy  the  confidence  we  repose  in  him. 

This  is  our  view  of  the  matter ;  and  entertaining  it,  not- 
withstanding our  respect  for  the  old  year,  one  of  the  few  re- 
maining moments  of  whose  existence  passes  away  with  every 
word  we  write,  here  we  are,  seated  by  our  fireside  on  this  last 
night  of  the  old  year,  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  thirty- 
six,  penning  chis  article  with  as  jovial  a  face  as  if  nothing  ex- 
traordinary had  happened,  or  was  about  to  happen,  to  disturb 
our  good-humor. 

Hackney-coaches  and  carriages  keep  rattling  up  the  street 
and  down  the  street  in  rapid  succession,  conveying,  doubtless, 
smartly-dressed  coachfuls  to  crowded  parties ;  loud  and  re- 
peated double  knocks  at  the  house  with  green  blinds,  oppo- 
site, announce  to  the  whole  neighborhood  that  there's  one 
large  party  in  the  street  at  all  events  ;  and  we  saw  through 
the  window,  and  through  the  fog  too,  till  it  grew  so  thick  that 
we  rung  for  candles,  and  drew  our  curtains,  pastrycooks'  men 
with  green  boxes  on  their  heads,  and  rout-fiirnitu re-ware- 
house-carts, with  cane  seats  and  French  lam]), .  luirrying  to 
the  numerous  houses  where  an  annual  festival  is  held  in 
honor  of  the  occasion. 

We  can  fancy  one  of  these  parties,  we  think,  as  well  as  if 
we  were  duly  dress-coated  and  pumped,  and  had  just  been 
announced  at  the  drawing-room  door. 

Take  the  house  with  the  green  blinds  for  instance.  We 
know  it  is  a  quadrille  party,  because  we  saw  some  men  taking 
up  the  front  drawing-room  carpet  while  we  sat  at  breakfast 
this  morning,  and  if  further  evidence  be  required,  and  we 
must  tell  the  truth,  we  just  now  saw  one  of  the  young  ladies 
"  doing another  of  the  young  ladies'  hair,  near  one  of  the 
bed-room  windows,  in  an  unusual  style  of  splendor,  which 
nothing  else  but  a  quadrille  party  could  possibly  justify. 

The  master  of  the  house  with  the  green  blinds  is  in  a 
public  office :  we  know  the  fact  by  the  cut  of  his  coat,  the  tie 
of  his  neckcloth,  and  the  self-satisfaction  of  his  gait — the  very 


THE  NEW  YEAR, 


green  blinds  themselves  have  a  Somerset  House  air  about 
them. 

Hark  ! — a  cab  !  That's  a  junior  clerk  in  the  same  office  ; 
a  tidy  sort  of  young  man,  with  a  tendency  to  cold  and  corns, 
who  comes  in  a  pair  of  boots  with  black  cloth  fronts,  and 
brings  his  shoes  in  his  coat-pocket,  which  shoes  he  is  at  this 
very  moment  putting  on  in  the  hall.  Now  he  is  announced 
by  the  man  in  the  passage  to  another  man  in  a  blue  coat,  who 
is  a  disguised  messenger  from  the  office. 

The  man  on  the  first  landing  precedes  him  to  the  draw- 
ing-room door.  "Mr.  Tupple  !  "  shouts  the  messenger.  "  How 
are  you,  Tupple  ? "  says  the  master  of  the  house,  advancing 
from  the  fire,  before  which  he  -has  been  talking  politics  and 
airing  himself.  "  My  dear,  this  is  Mr.  Tupple  (courteous  sa- 
lute from  the  lady  of  the  house)  ;  Tupple,  my  eldest  daugh- 
ter ;  Julia,  my  dear,  Mr.  Tupple  ;  Tupple,  my  other  daugh- 
ters ;  my  son,  sir  ; "  Tupple  rubs  his  hands  very  hard,  and 
smiles  as  if  it  were  all  capital  fun,  and  keeps  constantly  bow- 
ing and  turning  himself  round,  till  the  whole  family  have  been 
introduced,  when  he  glides  into  a  chair  at  the  corner  of  the 
sofa,  and  opens  a  miscellaneous  conversation  with  the  young 
ladies  upon  the  weather,  and  the  theatres,  and  the  old  year, 
and  the  last  new  murder,  and  the  balloon,  and  the  ladies' 
sleeves,  and  the  festivities  of  the  season,  and  a  great  many 
other  topics  of  small  talk. 

More  double  knocks  !  what  an  extensive  party  !  what  an 
incessant  hum  of  conversation  and  general  sipping  of  coffee  ! 
We  see  Tupple  now,  in  our  mind's  eye,  in  the  height  of  his 
glory.  He  has  just  handed  that  stout  old  lady's  cup  to  the 
servant ;  and  now,  he  dives  among  the  crowd  of  young  men 
by  the  door,  to  intercept  the  other  servant  and  secure  the 
rnuffin-plate  for  the  old  lady's  daughter,  before  he  leaves  the 
room ;  and  now,  as  he  passes  the  sofa  on  his  way  back,  he 
bestows  a  glance  of  recognition  and  patronage  upon  the 
young  ladies,  as  condescending  and  familiar  as  if  he  had 
known  them  from  infancy. 

Charming  person  Mr.  Tupple — perfect  ladies'  man — such 
a  delightful  companion,  too  !  Laugh  ! — nobody  ever  under- 
stood papa's  jokes  half  so  well  as  Mr.  Tupple,  who  laughs 
himself  into  convulsions  at  every  fresh  burst  of  facetiousness. 
Most  delightful  partner !  talks  through  the  whole  set !  and 
although  he  does  seem  at  first  rather  gay  and  frivolous,  so  ro- 
mantic and  with  so  much  feeling  !    Quite  a  love.    No  great 


5^2 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


favorite  with  the  young  men,  certainly,  who  sneer  at.  and  af- 
fect to  despise  him  ;  but  everybody  knows  that's  only  envy, 
and  they  needn't  give  themselves  the  trouble  to  depreciate  his 
merits  at  any  rate,  for  Ma  says  he  shall  be  asked  to  every 
future  dinner-party,  if  it's  only  to  talk  to  people  between  the 
courses,  and  distract  their  attention  when  there's  any  unex- 
pected delay  in  the  kitchen. 

At  supper,  Mr.  Tupple  shows  to  still  greater  advantage 
than  he  has  done  throughout  the  evening,  and  when  Pa  re- 
quests every  one  to  fill  their  glasses  for  the  purpose  of  drink 
ing  happiness  throughout  the  year,  Mr.  Tupple  is  so  droll  \ 
insisting  on  all  the  young  ladies  having  their  glasses  filled, 
notwithstanding  their  repeate'd  assurances  that  they  never 
can,  by  any  possibility  think  of  emptying  them  :  and  subse- 
quently begging  permission  to  say  a  few  words  on  the  senti- 
ment which  has  just  been  uttered  by  Pa — when  he  makes  one 
of  the  most  brilliant  and  poetical  speeches  that  can  possibly 
be  imagined,  about  the  old  year  and  the  new  one.  After  the 
toast  has  been  drunk,  and  when  the  ladies  have  retired,  Mr. 
Tupple  requests  that  every  gentleman  will  do  him  the  favor  of 
filling  his  glass,  for  he  has  a  toast  to  propose  :  on  which  all  the 
gentlemen  cry  Hear  !  hear  !  "  and  pass  the  decanters  accord- 
ingly :  and  Mr.  Tupple  being  informed  by  the  master  of  the 
house  that  they  are  all  charged,  and  waiting  for  his  toast,  rises, 
and  begs  to  remind  the  gentlemen  present,  how  much  they 
have  been  delighted  by  the  dazzling  array  of  elegance  and 
beauty  which  the  drawing-room  has  exhibited  that  night,  and 
how  their  senses  have  been  charmed,  and  their  hearts  capti- 
vated, by  the  bewitching  concentration  of  female  loveliness 
which  that  very  room  has  so  recently  displayed.  (Loud  cries  of 
"  Hear  !  ")  Much  as  he  (Tupple)  would  be  disposed  to  deplore 
the  absence  of  the  ladies,  on  other  grounds,  he  cannot  but  de- 
rive some  consolation  from  the  reflection  that  the  very  cir- 
cumstance of  their  not  being  present,  enables  him  to  propose 
a  toast,  which  he  would  have  otherwise  been  prevented  from 
giving — that  toast  he  begs  to  say  is — ^'  The  Ladies  ! "  (Great 
applause.)  The  Ladies  !  among  whom  the  fascinating  daugh- 
ters of  their  excellent  host,  are  alike  conspicuous  for  their 
beauty,  their  accomplishments,  and  their  elegance.  He  begs 
them  to  drain  a  bumper  to  The  Ladies,  and  a  happy  ^new 
year  to  them !  "  (Prolonged  approbation  ;  above  which  the 
noise  of  the  ladies  dancing  the  Spanish  dance  among  them* 
selves,  overhead,  is  distinctly  audible.) 


THE  NEW  YEAR 


The  applause  consequent  on  this  toast,  has  scarcely  sub- 
sided, when  a  young  gentleman  in  a  pink  under- waistcoat,  sit- 
ting towards  the  bottom  of  the  table,  is  observed  to  grow  very 
restless  and  fidgety,  and  to  evnice  strong  indications  of  some 
latent  desire  to  give  vent  to  his  feelings  in  a  speech,  which  the 
wary  Tupple  at  once  perceiving,  determines  to  forestall  by 
speaking  himself.  He,  therefore,  rises  again,  with  an  air  ot 
solemn  importance,  and  trusts  he  may  be  permitted  to  propose 
another  toast  (unqualified  approbation,  and  Mn  Tupple  pro- 
ceeds). He  is  sure  they  must  all  be  deeply  impressed  with  the 
hospitality — he  may  say  the  splendor— with  which  the\'  have 
been  that  night  received  by  their  worthy  host  and  hostess. 
(Unbounded  applause.)  Although  this  is  the  first  occasion  on 
which  he  has  had  the  pleasure  and  delight  of  sitting  at  that 
board,  he  has  known  his  friend  Dobble  long  and  intimately  ; 
he  has  been  connected  with  him  in  business — he  wishes  every 
body  present  knew  Dobble  as  well  as  he  does.  (A  cough  from 
the  host.)  He  (Tupple)  can  lay  his  hand  upon  his  (Tupple's) 
heart,  and  declare  his  confident  belief  that  a  better  man,  a 
better  husband,  a  better  father,  a  better  brother,  a  better  son, 
a  better  relation  in  any  relation  of  life,  than  Dobble,  nev^er 
existed.  *  (Loud  cries  of  "  Hear  !  ")  They  have  seen  him  to- 
night in  the  peaceful  bosom  of  his  family  ;  they  should  see  him 
in  the  morning,  in  the  trying  duties  of  his  office.  Calm  in  the 
perusal  of  the  morning  papers,  uncompromising  in  the  signa- 
ture of  his  name,  dignified  in  his  replies  to  the  inquiries  of 
stranger  applicants,  deferential  in  his  behavior  to  his  superiors, 
majestic  in  his  deportment  to  the  messengers.  (Cheers.) 
When  he  bears  this  merited  testimony  to  the  excellent  qualities 
of  his  friend  Dobble,  what  can  he  say  in  approaching  such  a 
subject  as  Mrs.  Dobble  ?  Is  it  requisite  for  him  to  expatiate 
on  the  qualities  of  that  amiable  woman  ?  No  ;  he  will  spare 
his  friend  Dobble's  feelings  ;  he  will  spare  the  feelings  of  his 
friend — if  he  will  allow  him  to  have  the  honor  of  calling  him 
so — Mr.  Dobble,  junior.  (Here  Mr.  Dobble,  junior,  who  has 
been  previously  distending  his  mouth  to  considerable  width,  by 
thrusting  a  particularly  fine  orange  into  that  feature,  suspends 
operations,  and  assumes  a  proper  appearance  of  intense  mel- 
ancholy.) He  will  simply  say — and  he  is  quite  certain  it  is  a 
sentiment  in  which  all  who  hear  him  will  readily  concur — that 
his  friend  Dobble  is  as  superior  to  any  man  he  ever  knew,  as 
Mrs.  Dobble  is  far  beyond  any  woman  he  ever  saw  (except  her 
daughter)  :  and  he  will  conclude  by  proposing  their  worthy 


5^4 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


"  Host  and  Hostess,  and  may  they  live  to  enjoy  many  more 
new  years ! 

The  toast  is  drunk  with  acclamation  ;  Dobble  returns  thanks, 
and  the  whole  party  rejoin  the  ladies  in  the  drawing-room. 
Young  men  who  were  too  bashful  to  dance  before  supper, 
find  tongues  and  partners  ;  the  musicians  exhibit  unequivocal 
symptoms  of  having  drunk  the  new  year  in,  while  the  company 
were  out ;  and  dancing  is  kept  up,  until  farjn  the  first  morning 
of  the  new  year. 

We  have  scarcely  written  the  last  word  of  the  previous  sen- 
tence, when  the  first  stroke  of  twelve,  peals  from  the  neighbor- 
ing churches.  There  certainly — we  must  confess  it  now — is 
something  awful  in  the  sound.  Strictly  speaking,  it  may  not 
be  more  impressive  now,  than  at  any  other  time  ;  for  the  hours 
steal  as  swiftly  on,  at  other  periods,  and  their  flight  is  little 
heeded.  But,  we  measure  man's  life  by  years,  and  it  is  a 
solemn  knell  that  warns  us  we  have  passed  another  of  the 
landmarks  which  stand  between  us  and  the  grave.  Disguise 
it  as  we  may,  the  reflection  will  force  itself  on  our  minds,  that 
when  the  next  bell  announces  the  arrival  of  a  new  year,  we 
may  be  insensible  alike  of  the  timely  warning  we  have  so 
often  neglected,  and  of  all  the  warm  feelings  that  glorw  within 
us  now. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MISS  EVANS  AND  THE  EAGLE. 

Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins  was  a  carpenter,  a  journeyman  car- 
penter of  small  dimensions,  decidedly  below  the  middle  size — 
bordering,  perhaps,  upon  the  dwarfish.  His  face  was  round 
and  shining,  and  his  hair  carefully  twisted  into  the  outer 
corner  of  each  eye,  till  it  formed  a  variety  of  that  description 
of  semi-curls,  usually  known  as  aggerawators."  His  earnings 
were  all-suflicient  for  his  wants,  varying  from  eighteen  shillings 
to  one  pound  five,  weekly — his  manner  undeniable — his  sab- 
bath waistcoat  dazzling.  No  wonder  that,  with  these  qualifi- 
cations, Samuel  Wilkins  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  other 
sex :  many  women  have  been  captivated  by  far  less  substantial 
qualifications.    But,  Samuel  was  proof  against  their  blandish- 


MISS  EVANS  AND  THE  EAGLE 


ments,  until  at  length  his  eyes  rested  on  those  of  a  being  for 
whom,  from  that  time  forth,  he  felt  fate  had  destined  him. 
He  came,  and  conquered — proposed,  and  was  accepted — loved^ 
and  was  beloved  Mr.  Wilkins  "  kept  company  "  with  Jemima 
Evans. 

Miss  Evans  (or  Ivins,  to  adopt  the  pronunciation  most  in 
vogue  with  her  circle  of  acquaintance)  had  adopted  in  early 
life  the  useful  pursuit  of  shoe-binding,  to  which  she  had  after- 
wards superadded  the  occupation  of  a  straw-bonnet  maker. 
Herself,  her  maternal  parent,  and  two  sisters,  formed  an  har- 
monious quartette  in  the  most  secluded  portion  of  Camden- 
town  ;  and  here  it  was  that  Mr.  Wilkins  presented  himself, 
one  Monday  afternoon,  in  his  best  attire,  with  his  face  more 
shining  and  his  waistcoat  more  bright  than  either  had  ever 
appeared  before.  The  family  were  just  going  to  tea,  and  were 
so  glad  to  see  him.  It  was  quite  a  little  feast ;  two  ounces  of 
seven-and-sixpenny  green,  and  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  the 
best  fresh  ;  and  Mr.  Wilkins  had  brought  a  pint  of  shrimps, 
neatly  folded  up  in  a  clean  belcher,  to  give  a  zest  to  the  meal, 
and  propitiate  Mrs.  Ivins.  Jemima  was  "  cleaning  herself 
up  stairs  ;  so  Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins  sat  down  and  talked  do- 
mestic economy  with  Mrs.  Ivins,  whilst  the  two  youngest  Miss 
Ivinses  poked  bits  of  lighted  brown  paper  between  the  bars 
under  the  kettle,  to  make  the  water  boil  for  tea. 

"  I  wos  a  thinking,"  said  Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins,  during  a 
pause  in  the  conversation — "  I  wos  a  thinking  of  taking 
J'mimato  the  Eagle  to-night." — my  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ivins. 

Lor  !  how  nice  !  "  said  the  youngest  Miss  Ivins.  '^W^ell,  I 
declare  !  "  added  the  youngest  Miss  Ivins  but  one.  "  Tell 
J'mima  to  put  on  her  white  muslin,  Tilly,"  screamed  Mrs.  Ivins, 
with  motherly  anxiety ;  and  down  came  J'mima  herself  soon 
afterwards  in  a  white  muslin  gown  carefully  hooked  and  eyed, 
a  little  red  shawl,  plentifully  pinned,  a  white  straw  bonnet 
trimmed  with  red  ribbons,  a  small  necklace,  a  large  pair  of 
bracelets,  Denmark  satin  shoes,  and  open-worked  stockings  ; 
white  cotton  gloves  on  her  fingers,  and  a  cambric  pocket-hand- 
kerchief, carefully  folded  up,  in  her  hand — all  quite  genteel 
and  ladylike.  And  away  went  Miss  J'mima  Ivins  and  Mr. 
Samuel  Wilkins,  and  a  dress  cane,  with  a  gilt  knob  at  the  top, 
to  the  admiration  and  envy  of  the  street  in  general,  and  to  the 
high  gratification  of  Mrs.  Ivins,  and  the  two  youngest  Miss 
Ivinses  in  particular.  They  had  no  sooner  turned  into  the 
Pancras  road,  than  who  should  Miss  J'mima  Ivins  stumble 


S66 


SKETCHES  BY  IWZ, 


upon,  by  the  most  fortunate  accident  in  the  world,  but  a  young 
lady  as  she  knew,  with  her  young  man! — And  it  is  so  strange 
how  things  do  turn  out  sometimes — they  were  actually  going 
to  the  Eagle  too.  So  Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins  was  introduced  to 
Miss  J'mima  Jvins's  friend's  young  man,  and  t"ey  all  walked 
on  together,  talking,  and  laughing,  and  jokiug  away  like  any- 
thing ;  and  when  they  got  as  far  as  Pentonville,  Miss  Ivins's 
friend's  young  man  would  have  the  ladies  go  into  the  Crown, 
to  taste  some  shrub,  which,  after  a  great  blushing  and  giggling, 
and  hiding  of  faces  in  elaborate  pocket-handkerchiefs,  they 
consented  to  do.  Having  tasted  it  once,  they  w^ere  easily  pre- 
vailed upon  to  taste  again  ;  and  they  sat  out  in  the  garden 
tasting  shrub,  and  looking  at  the  Busses  alternately,  till  it  was 
just  the  proper  time  to  go  to  the  Eagle  ;  and  then  they  re- 
sumed their  journey,  and  walked  very  fast,  for  fear  they  should 
lose  the  beginning  of  the  concert  in  the  rotunda. 

'^How  ev'nly  r"  said  Miss  J'mima  Ivins,  and  Miss  J'mima 
Ivins's  friend,  both  at  once,  when  they  had  passed  the  gate 
and  were  fairly  inside  the  gardens.  There  were  the  walks, 
beautifully  gravelled  and  planted — and  the  refreshment-boxes, 
painted  and  ornamented  like  so  many  snuff-boxes — and  the 
variegated  lamps  shedding  their  rich  light  upon  the  company's 
heads — and  the  place  for  dancing  ready  chalked  for  the  com- 
pany's feet — and  a  Moorish  band  playing  at  one  end  of  the 
gardens — and  an  opposition  military  band  playing  away  at 
the  other.  Then,  the  waiters  w^ere  rushing  to  and  fro  with 
glasses  of  negus,  and  glasses  of  brandy-and-water,  and  bottles 
of  ale,  and  bottles  of  stout  ;  and  ginger-beer  was  going  off  in 
one  place,  and  practical  jokes  were  going  on  in  another  ;  and 
people  were  crowding  to  the  door  of  the  Rotunda  \  and  in 
short  the  whole  scene  was,  as  Miss  J'mima  Ivins,  inspired  by 
the  novelty,  or  the  shrub,  or  both,  observed — one  of  dazzling 
excitement/'  As  to  the  concert-room,  never  was  anything 
half  so  splendid.  There  was  an  orchestra  for  the  singers,  all 
paint,  gilding,  and  plate-glass ;  and  such  an  organ  1  Miss 
J'mima  Ivins's  friend's  young  man  whispered  it  had  cost 
''four  hundred  pound,'*'  which  Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins  said  was 
''  not  dear  neither  ; "  an  opinion  in  which  the  ladies  perfectly 
coincided.  The  audience  were  seated  on  elevated  benches 
round  the  room,  and  crowded  into  every  part  of  it  ;  and 
everybody  was  eating  and  drinking  as  comfortably  as  possi- 
ble. Just  before  the  concert  commenced,.  Mr^  Samuel  Wil- 
kins ordered  two  glasses  of  rum-and-water  "  warm  with — " 


M/SS  EVANS  AND  THE  EAGLE. 


567 


and  two  slices  of  lemon,  for  himself  and  the  other  young 
man,  together  with  ^'  a  pint  o'  sherry  wine  for  the  ladies,  and 
some  sweet  carraway-seed  biscuits  and  they  would  have 
been  quite  comfortable  and  happy,  only  a  strange  gentleman 
with  large  whiskers  would  stare  at  Miss  J'mima  [vins,  and 
cinother  gentleman  in  a  plaid  waistcoat  woicld wink  at  Miss 
J'mima  Ivins's  friend;  on  which  Miss  J'mima  Ivins's  friend's 
young  man  exhibited  symptoms  of  boiling  over,  and  began  to 
mutter  about  "people's  imperence,  "  and  "swells  out  o' 
luck  ; "  and  to  intimate,  in  oblique  terms,  a  vague  intention  of 
knocking  somebody's  head  off  ;  which  he  was  only  prevented 
from  announcing  more  emphatically,  by  both  Miss  J'mima 
Ivins  and  her  friend  threatening  to  faint  away  on  the  spot  if 
he  said  another  word. 

The  concert  commenced — overture  on  the  organ.  "  How 
solemn  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  J'mima  Ivins,  glancing,  perhaps  un- 
consciously, at  the  gentleman  with  the  whiskers.  Mr.  Samuel 
Wilkins,  who  had  been  muttering  apart  for  some  time  past,  as 
if  he  were  holding  a  confidential  conversation  with  the  gilt 
knob  of  the  dress  cane,  breathed  hard — breathing  vengeance, 
perhaps — but  said  nothing.  ^'The  soldier  tired,"  Miss  Some- 
body in  white  satin.  "  Ancore  !  "  cried  Miss  J'mima  Ivins's 
friend.  "Ancore  !  "  shouted  the  gentleman  in  the  plaid  waist- 
coat immediately,  hammering  the  table  with  a  stout-bottle. 
Miss  J'mima  Ivins's  friend's  young  man  eyed  the  man  behind 
the  waistcoat  from  head  to  foot,  and  cast  a  look  of  interro- 
gative contempt  towards  Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins.  Comic  song, 
accompanied  on  the  organ.  Miss  J'mima  Ivins  was  convulsed 
with  laughter — so  was  the  man  with  the  whiskers.  Every- 
thing the  ladies  did,  the  plaid  waistcoat  and  whiskers  did,  by 
way  of  expressing  unity  of  sentiment  and  congeniality  of 
soul ;  and  Miss  J'mima  Ivins's  friend,  grew  lively  and  talk- 
ative, as  Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins,  and  Miss  J'mima  Ivins's  friend's 
young  man,  grew  morose  and  surly  in  inverse  proportion. 

Now,  if  the  matter  had  ended  here,  the  little  party  might 
soon  have  recovered  their  former  equanimity  :  but  Mr.  Samuel 
Wilkins  and  his  friend  began  to  throw  looks  of  defiance  upon 
the  waistcoat  and  whiskers.  And  the  waistcoat  and  whiskers, 
by  way  of  intimating  the  slight  degree  in  which  they  were 
affected  by  the  looks  aforesaid,  bestowed  glances  of  increased 
admiration  upon  Miss  J'mima  Ivins  and  friend.  The  concert 
and  vaudeville  concluded,  they  promenaded  the  gardens.  The 
waistcoat  and  whiskers  did  the  same ;  and  made  divers  re- 


S68 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


marks  complimentary  to  the  ankles  of  Miss  Jemima  Ivins  and 

friend,  in  an  audible  tone.  At  length,  not  satisfied  with  these 
numerous  atrocities,  they  actually  came  up  and  asked  Miss 
J'mima  Ivins,  and  Miss  J'mima  Ivins's  friend,  to  dance,  with- 
out taking  no  more  notice  of  Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins,  and  Miss 
J'mima  Ivins's  friend's  young  man  than  if  they  was  nobody  ! 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  scoundrel  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Samuel  Wilkins,  grasping  the  gilt-knobbed  dress-cane  firmly 
in  his  right  hand.  What's  the  matter  with  yoii^  you  little 
humbug  1 "  replied  the  whiskers.  ^'  How  dare  you  insult  me 
and  my  friend  ?  "  inquired  the  friend's  young  man.  "You 
and  your  friend  be  hanged !  "  responded  the  waistcoat. 
"  Take  that,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins.  The  ferrule  of 
the  gilt-nobbed  dress-cane  was  visible  for  an  instant,  and  then 
the  light  of  the  variegated  lamps  shone  brightly  upon  it  as  it 
whirled  into  the  air,  cane  and  all.  ^^Give  it  him,"  said  the 
waistcoat.  "  Horficer  !  "  screamed  the  ladies.  Miss  J'mima 
Ivins's  beau,  and  the  friend's  young  man,  lay  gasping  on  the 
gravel,  and  the  waistcoat  and  whiskers  were  seen  no  more. 

Miss  J'mima  Ivins  and  friend  being  conscious  that  the 
affray  was  in  no  slight  degree  attributable  to  themselves,  of 
course  went  into  hysterics  forthwith  ;  declared  themselves  the 
most  injured  of  women  ;  exclaimed,  in  incoherent  ravings, 
that  they  had  been  suspected — wrongfully  suspected — oh! 
that  they  should  ever  have  lived  to  see  the  day — and  so  forth  ; 
suffered  a  relapse  every  time  they  opened  their  eyes  and  saw 
their  unfortunate  little  admirers  ;  and  were  carried  to  their 
respective  abodes  in  a  hackney-coach,  and  a  state  insensibility, 
compounded  of  shrub,  sherry,  and  excitement. 


CHAPTER  V, 

THE  PARLOR  ORATOR. 

We  had  been  lounging  one  evening,  down  Oxford-street, 
Holborn,  Cheapside,  Coleman-street,  Finsbury-square,  and  so 
on,  with  the  intention  of  returning  westward,  by  Pentonville 
and  the  New-road,  when  we  began  to  feel  rather  thirsty,  and 
disposed  to  rest  for  five  or  ten  minutes.    So,  we  turned  bacl^ 


THE  PARLOR  ORATOR. 


towards  an  old,  quiet,  decent  public-house,  which  we  remem- 
bered to  have  passed  but  a  moment  before  (it  was  not  far 
from  the  City-road),  for  the  purpose  of  solacing  ourselves 
with  a  glass  of  ale.  The  house  was  none  of  your  stuccoed, 
French-polished,  illuminated  palaces,  but  a  modest  public- 
house  of  the  old  school,  with  a  little  old  bar,  and  a  little  old 
landlord,  who,  with  a  wife  and  daughter  of  the  same  pattern, 
was  comfortably  seated  in  the  bar  aforesaid — a  snug  little 
room  with  a  cheerful  fire,  protected  by  a  large  screen  :  from 
behind  which  the  young  lady  emerged  on  our  representing 
our  inclination  for  a  glass  of  ale. 

"Won't  you  walk  into  the  parlor,  sir?  "said  the  young 
lady,  in  seductive  tones. 

You  had  better  walk  into  the  parlor,  sir,"  said  the  little 
old  landlord,  throwing  his  chair  back,  and  looking  round  one 
side  of  the  screen,  to  survey  our  appearance. 

"  You  had  much  better  step  into  the  parlor,  sir,"  said  the 
little  old  lady,  popping  out  her  head,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
screen. 

We  cast  a  slight  glance  around,  as  if  to  express  our  igno- 
rance of  the  locality  so  much  recommended.  The  little  old 
landlord  observed  it ;  bustled  out  of  the  small  door  of  the 
small  bar  ;  and  forthwith  ushered  us  into  the  parlor  itself. 

It  was  an  ancient,  dark-looking  room,  with  oaken  wains- 
coting, a  sanded  floor,  and  a  high  mantelpiece.  The  walls 
were  ornamented  with  three  or  four  old  colored  prints  in  black 
frames,  each  print  representing  a  naval  engagement,  with  a 
couple  of  men-of-war  banging  away  at  each  other  most  vigor- 
ously, while  another  vessel  or  two  were  blowing  up  in  the 
distance,  and  the  foreground  presented  a  miscellaneous  col- 
lection of  broken  masts  and  blue  legs  sticking  up  out  of  the 
water.  Depending  from  the  ceiling  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
were  a  gas-light  and  bell-pull  ;  on  each  side  were  three  or  four 
long  narrow  tables,  behind  which  was  a  thickly-planted  row 
of  those  slippery,  shiny-looking  wodden  chairs,  peculiar  to 
hostelries  of  this  description.  The  monotonous  appearance 
of  the  sanded  boards  w^as  relieved  by  an  occasional  spittoon  ; 
and  a  triangular  pile  of  those  useful  articles  adorned  the  two 
upper  corners  of  the  apartment. 

At  the  furthest  table,  nearest  the  fire,  with  his  face  to* 
wards  the  door  at  the  bottom  of  the  room,  sat  a  stout? sh  man 
of  about  forty,  whose  short,  stiff,  black  hair  curled  closely 
round  a  broad  high  forehead,  and  a  face  to  which  something 


57^ 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


besides  water  and  exercise  had  communicated  a  rather  in« 
flamed  appearance.  He  was  smoking  a  cigar,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ceiUng,  and  had  that  confident  oracular  air 
which  marked  him  as  the  leading  politician,  general  author- 
ity, and  universal  anecdote-relater,  of  the  place.  He  had 
evidently  just  delivered  himself  of  something  very  weighty  \ 
for  the  remainder  of  the  company  were  puffing  at  their  re- 
spective pipes  and  cigars  in  a  kind  of  solemn  abstraction,  as  if 
quite  overwhelmed  with  the  magnitude  of  the  subject  recently 
under  discussion. 

On  his  right  hand  sat  an  elderly  gentleman  with  a  white 
head,  and  broad-brimmed  brown  hat ;  on  his  left,  a  sharp- 
nosed,  Hght-haired  man  in  a  brown  surtout  reaching  nearly  to 
his  heels,  who  took  a  whiff  at  his  pipe,  and  an  admiring 
glance  of  the  red-faced  man,  alternately. 

"  Very  extraordinary  !  said  the  light-haired  maii  after  a 
pause  of  five  minutes.  A  murmur  of  assent  ran  through  the 
company. 

"  Not  at  all  extraordinary — not  at  all,"  said  the  red-faced 
man,  awakening  suddenly  from  his  reverie,  and  turning  upon 
the  light-haired  man,  the  moment  he  had  spoken. 

"  Why  should  it  be  extraordinary? — wdiy  is  it  extraordi- 
nary ? — prove  it  to  be  extraordinary  !  " 

"  Oh,  if  you  come  to  that — "  said  the  light-haired  man, 
meekly. 

Come  to  that  1  "  ejaculated  the  man  with  the  red  face  ; 
but  we  must  come  to  that.  We  stand  in  these  times,  upon 
a  calm  elevation  of  intellectual  attainment,  and  not  in  the 
dark  recess  of  mental  deprivation.  Proof,  is  what  I  require — 
proof,  and  not  assertions,  in  these  stirring  times.  Every 
gen'lem'n  that  knows  me,  knows  what  was  the  nature  and 
effect  of  my  observations,  when  it  was  in  the  contemplation  of 
the  Old-street  Suburban  Representative  Discovery  Society,  to 
recommend  a  candidate  for  that  place  in  Cornwall  there — I 
forget  the  name  of  it.  ****  Mr.  Snobee,'  said  Mr.  Wilson,  'is  a 
fit  and  proper  person  to  represent  the  borough  in  Parliament.' 
'  Prove  it,'  says  I.  '  He  is  a  friend  to  Reform,'  says  Mr. 
W^ilson.  '  Prove  it,'  says  I.  *  The  abolitionist  of  the  national 
debt,  the  unflinching  opponent  of  pensions,  the  uncompromis- 
ing advocate  of  the  negro,  the  reducer  of  sinecures  and  the 
duration  of  Parliaments  ;  the  extender  of  nothing  but  the 
suffrages  of  the  people,'  says  Mr.  Wilson.  *  Prove  it/  says  L 
*  His  acts  prove  it,'  says  he.    *  Prove  them^^  says  L 


THE  PARLOR  ORATOR.  ^-71 

And  he  could  not  prove  them,"  said  tlie  red-faced  man, 
looking  round  triumphantly;  "  and  the  borough  didn't  have 
him  ;  and  if  you  carried  this  principle  to  the  tuil  extent,  you'd 
nave  no  debt,  no  pensions,  no  smecures,  no  negroes,  no  noth- 
ing. And  then,  standing  upon  an  elevation  of  intellectual 
attainment,  and  having  reached  the  summit  of  popular  proS' 
perity,  you  might  bid  defiance  to  the  nations  of  the  earth,  and 
erect  yourselves  in  the  proud  confidence  of  wisdom  and  sii- 
l^eriority.  This  is  my  argument — this  always  has  been  my 
:\rgument — and  if  I  was  a  Member  of  the  House  of  Commons 
lo-morrow,  I'd  make  'em  shake  m  their  shoes  with  it."  And 
the  red-faced  man,  having  struck  the  table  very  hard  with  his 
clenched  fist,  to  add  weight  to  the  declaration,  smoked  away 
like  a  brewery. 

"  Well  !  "  said  the  sharp-nosed  man,  in  a  very  slow  and 
soft  voice,  addressing  the  company  in  general,  I  always  do 
say,  that  of  all  the  gentlemen  1  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
in  this  room,  there  is  not  one  whose  conversation  I  like  to 
hear  so  much  as  Air.  Rogers's,  or  who  is  such  improving  coit:- 
pany." 

"  Improving  company !  "  said  Mr.  Rogers,  for  that,  it 
seemed,  was  the  name  of  the  red-faced  man,  You  may' say  I 
am  improving  company,  for  I've  improved  you  all  to  some 
purpose  ;  though  as  to  my  conversation  being  as  my  friend 
Mr.  Ellis  here  describes  it,  that  is  not  for  me  to  say  anything 
about.  You,  gentlemen,  are  the  best  judges  on  that  point ; 
but  this  I  will  say,  when  I  came  into  this  parish,  and  first 
used  this  room,  ten  years  ago,  I  don't  believe  there  was  one 
man  in  it,  who  knew  he  was  a  slave — and  now  you  all  know 
it,  and  writhe  under  it.  Inscribe  that  upon  my  tomb,  and  I 
am  satisfied." 

"Why,  as  to  inscribing  it  on  your  tomb,"  said  a  little 
greengrocer  with  a  chubby  face,  "  of  course  you  can  have 
anything  chalked  up,  as  you  likes  to  pay  for,  so  far  as  it  re- 
lates to  yourself  and  your  affairs  ;  but  when  you  come  to  talk 
about  slaves,  and  that  there  abuse,  you'd  better  keep  it  in  the 
family,  '  cos  I  for  one  don't  like  to  be  called  them  names, 
night  after  night." 

You  are  a  slave,"  said  the  red-faced  man,  "  and  the 
m.ost  pitiable  of  all  slaves." 

Werry  hard  if  I  am,"  interrupted  the  greengrocer,  ''for 
I  got  no  good  out  of  the  twenty  million  that  was  paid  fol 
'mancipation,  anyhow." 


572 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


A  willing  slave,"  ejaculated  the  red-faced  man,  getting 
more  red  with  eloquence,  and  contradiction — resignnig  the 
dearest  birthright  of  your  children — neglecting  the  sacred 
call  of  Liberty — who,  standing  imploringly  before  you,  appeals 
to  the  warmest  feelings  of  your  heart,  and  points  to  your 
helpless  infants,  but  in  vain.'' 

"  Prove  it,"  said  the  greengrocer. 

*'  Prove  it  !  "  sneered  the  man  with  the  red-face.  "  What  \ 
bending  beneath  the  yoke  of  an  insolent  and  factious  oligar- 
chy;  bowed  down  by  the  domination  oL  Ciuel  laws  ;  groaning 
beneath  tyranny  and  oppression  on  every  hand,  at  every  side, 
and  in  every  corner.  Prove  it ! — The  red-faced  man  ab- 
ruptly broke  off,  sneered  melp-dramatically,  and  buried  his 
countenance  and  his  indignation  together,  in  a  quart  pot. 

Ah,  to  be  sure,  Mr.  Rogers,"  said  a  stout  broker  in  a 
large  waistcoat,  who  had  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  this  luminary 
all  the  time  he  was  speaking.  Ah,  to  be  sure,"  said  the 
broker  with  a  sigh,    that's  the  point." 

''Of  course,  of  course,"  said  divers  members  of  the  com- 
pany, who  understood  almost  as  much  about  the  matter  as 
the  broker  himself. 

"You  had  better  let  him  alone.  Tommy,"  said  the  broker, 
by  way  of  advice  to  the  little  greengrocer,  "  he  can  tell  what's 
o'clock  by  an  eight-day,  without  looking  at  the  minute  hand, 
he  can.  Try  it  on,  on  some  other  suit ;  it  won't  do  with  him. 
Tommy." 

"  What  is  a  man  ?  "  continued  the  red-faced  specimen  of 
the  species,  jerking  his  hat  indignantly  from  its  peg  on  the 
wall.  "  What  is  an  Englishman  1  Is  he  to  be  trampled  upon 
by  every  oppressor  ?  Is  he  to  be  knocked  down  at  every- 
body's bidding  ?  What's  freedom  ?  Not  a  standing  army. 
What's  a  standing  army  ?  Not  freedom.  What's  genera] 
happiness  ?  Not  universal  misery.  Liberty  ain't  the  window- 
tax,  is  it?  The  Lords  ain't  the  Commons,  are  they?"  And 
the  red-faced  man,  gradually  bursting  into  a  radiating  sen- 
tence, in  which  such  adjectives  as  dastardly,"  "  oppressive," 
"violent,"  and  "sanguinary,"  formed  the  most  conspicuous 
words,  knocked  his  hat  indignantly  over  his  eyes,  left  the 
room,  and  slammed  the  door  after  him. 

"  W^onderful  man  !  "  said  he  of  the  sharp  nose. 

"  Splendid  speaker !  "  added  the  broker. 

"  Great  power !  "  said  everybody  but  the  greengrocer. 
And  as  they  said  it,  the  whole  party  shook  their  heads  mys- 


THE  HOSPITAL  PATIENT 


573 


teriously,  and  one  by  one  retired,  leaving  us  alone  in  the  old 
parlor. 

If  we  had  followed  the  established  precedent  in  all  such 
instances,  we  should  have  fallen  into  a  fit  of  musing,  without 
delay.  The  ancient  appearance  of  the  room — the  old  panell- 
ing of  the  wall — the  chimney  blackened  with  smoke  and  age 
— would  have  carried  us  back  a  hundred  years  at  least,  and 
we  should  have  gone  dreaming  on,  until  the  pewter-pot  on 
the  table,  or  the  little  beer-chiller  on  the  fire,  had  started  into 
life,  and  addressed  to  us  a  long  story  of  days  gone  by.  But. 
by  some  means  or  other,  we  were  not  in  a  romantic  humor  ; 
and  although  we  tried  very  hard  to  invest  the  furniture  with 
vitality,  it  remained  perfectly  unmoved,  obstinate,  and  sullen. 
Being  thus  reduced  to  the  unpleasant  necessity  of  musing  about 
ordmary  matters,  our  thoughts  reverted  to  the  red-faced  man, 
and  his  oratorical  display. 

A  numerous  race  are  these  red-faced  men  ;  there  is  not  a 
parlor,  or  club-room,  or  benefit  society  or  humble  party  of 
any  kind,  without  its  red-faced  man.  Weak-pated  dolts  they 
are,  and  a  great  deal  of  mischief  they  do  to  their  cause,  how- 
ever good.  So,  just  to  hold  a  pattern  one  up,  to  know  the 
others  by,  we  rook  his  likeness  at  once,  and  put  him  in  here. 
And  that  is  the  reason  why  we  have  written  this  paper. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  HOSPITAL  PATIENT. 

In  our  rambles  through  the  streets  of  London  after  even- 
ing has  set  in,  we  often  pause  beneath  the  windows  of  some 
public  hospital,  and  picture  to  ourself  the  gloomy  and  n]0urn- 
ful  scenes  that  are  passing  within.  The  sudden  moving  of  a 
taper  as  its  feeble  ray  shoots  from  window  to  window,  until 
its  light  gradually  disappears,  as  if  it  were  carried  farther 
back  into  the  room  to  the  bedside  of  some  suffering  patient, 
is  enough  to  awaken  a  whole  crowd  of  reflections ;  the  mere 
glimmering  of  the  low-burning  lamps,  which,  when  all  other 
habitations  are  wrapped  in  darkness  and  slumber,  denote  the 
chamber  where  so  many  forms  are  writhing  with  pain  or 


574 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


wasting  with  disease,  is  sufficient  to  check  the  most  boister- 
ous merriment. 

Who  can  tell  the  anguish  of  those  weary  hours,  when  the 
only  sound  the  sick  man  hears,  is  the  disjointed  wanderings 
Df  some  feverish  slumberer  near  him,  the  low  moan  of  pain, 
or  perhaps  the  muttered,  long-forgotten  prayer  of  a  dying 
man  ?  Who,  but  they  who  have  felt  it,  can  imagine  the  sense 
of  loneliness  and  desolation  which  must  be  the  portion  of 
those  who  in  the  hour  of  dangerous  illness  are  left  to  be 
tended  by  strangers  ;  for  what  hands,  be  they  ever  so  gentle, 
can  wipe  the  clammy  brow,  or  smooth  the  restless  bed,  like 
those  of  mother,  wife,  or  child  ? 

Impressed  with  these  thoughts,  we  have  turned  away, 
through  the  nearly-deserted  streets  ;  and  the  sight  of  the 
few  miserable  creatures  still  hovering  about  them,  has  not 
tended  to  lessen  the  pain  which  such  meditations  awaken.  The 
hospital  is  a  refuge  and  resting-place  for  hundreds,  who  but 
for  such  institutions  must  die  in  the  streets  and  doorways; 
but  what  can  be  the  feelings  of  some  outcasts  when  they  are 
stretched  on  the  bed  of  sickness  with  scarcely  a  hope  of  re- 
covery ?  The  wretched  \voman  who  lingers  about  the  pave- 
ment, hours  after  midnight,  and  the  miserable  shadow  of  a 
man — the  ghastly  remnant  that  want  and  drunkenness  have 
left — which  crouches  beneath  a  window-ledge,  to  sleep  where 
there  is  some  shelter  from  the  rain,  have  little  to  bind  them  to 
life,  but  what  have  they  to  look  back  upon,  in  death  ?  What 
are  the  unwonted  comforts  of  a  roof  and  a  bed,  to  them, 
when  the  recollections  of  a  whole  life  of  debasement  stalk  be- 
fore them  ;  v/hen  repentance  seems  a  mockery,  and  sorrow 
comes  too  late  ? 

About  a  twelvemonth  ago,  as  we  were  strolling  through 
Covent-garden  (we  had  been  thinking  about  these  things 
overnight),  we  were  attracted  by  the  very  prepossessing  ap- 
pearance of  a  pickpocket,  who  having  declined  to  take  the 
trouble  of  walking  to  the  Police-office,  on  the  ground, that  lie 
hadn't  the  slightest  wisli  to  go  there  at  all,  was  being  con  - 
veyed thither  in  a  wheelbarrow,  to  the  huge  delight  of  a 
crowd. 

Somehow,  we  never  can  resist  joining  a  crowd,  so  we 
turned  back  with  the  mob,  and  entered  the-  office,  in  company 
with  our  friend  the  pickpocket,  a  couple  of  policemen,  and 
as  many  dirty-faced  spectators  as  could  squeeze  their  way  in. 

There  was  a  powerful,  ill-looking  young  fellow  at  the  bar, 


THE  HOSPITAL  PATIENT 

who  was  undergoing  an  examination,  on  the  very  common 
charge  of  having,  on  the  previous  night,  ill-treated  a  woman, 
with  whom  he  lived  in  some  court  hard  by.  Several  wit- 
nesses bore  testimony  to  acts  of  the  grossest  brutality  ;  and  a 
certificate  was  read  from  the  house-surgeon  of  a  neighboring 
hospital,  describing  the  nature  of  the  injuries  the  woman  had 
received,  and  intimating  that  her  recovery  was  extremely 
doubtful. 

Some  question  appeared  to  have  been  raised  about  the 
identity  of  the  prisoner ;  for  when  it  was  agreed  that  the  two 
magistrates  should  visit  the  hospital  at  eight  o'clock  that 
evening,  to  take  her  deposition,  it  w^as  settled  that  the  man 
should  be  taken  there  also.  He  turned  pale  at  this,  and  we 
saw  him  clench  the  bar  very  hard  when  the  order  was  given. 
He  was  removed  directly  afterwards,  and  he  spoke  not  a  word. 

We  felt  an  irrepressible  curiosity  to  witness  this  interview, 
although  it  is  hard  to  tell  why,  at  this  instant,  for  we  knew  it 
must  be  a  painful  one.  It  was  no  very  difficult  matter  for 
us  to  gain  permission,  and  we  obtained  it. 

The  prisoner,  and  the  officer  who  had  him  in  custody, 
were  already  at  the  hospital  when  we  reached  it,  and  waiting 
the  arrival  of  the  magistrates  in  a  small  room  below  stairs. 
The  man  was  handcuffed,  and  his  hat  was  ^pulled  forward 
over  his  eyes.  It  was  easy  to  see,  though,  by  the  whiteness  of 
his  countenance,  and  the  constant  twitching  of  the  muscles 
of  his  face,  that  he  dreaded  what  was  to  come.  After  a  short 
interval,  the  magistrates  and  clerk  were  bowed  in  by  the 
house-surgeon  and  a  couple  of  young  men  who  smelt  very 
strong  of  tobacco-smoke — they  were  introduced  as  "dressers'' 
— and  after  one  magistrate  had  complained  bitterly  of  the 
cold,  and  the  other  of  the  absence  of  any  news  in  the  even- 
ing paper,  it  was  announced  that  the  patient  was  prepared  ; 
and  we  were  conducted  to  the  "casualty  ward  "  in  which 
she  was  lying. 

The  dim  light  which  burnt  in  the  spacious  room,  increased 
rather  than  diminished  the  ghastly  appearance  of  U^e  hapless 
creatures  in  the  beds,  which  were  ranged  in  two  long  rows 
on  either  side.  In  one  bed,  lay  a  child  enveloped  in  band- 
ages, with  its  body  half-consumed  by  fire  ;  in  another,  a  fe- 
male, rendered  hideous  by  some  dreadful  accident,  was  wildly 
beating  her  clenched  fists  on  the  coverlet,  in  pain  ;  on  a  third, 
there  lay  stretched  a  young  girl,  apparently  m  the  heavy 
stupor  often  the  immediate  precursor  of  death  :  her  face  was 
(Jo 


576 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


Stained  with  blood,  and  h*er  breast  and  arms  were  bound  up 
in  folds  of  linen.  Two  or  three  of  the  beds  were  empty,  and 
their  recent  occupants  were  sitting  beside  them,  but  with 
faces  so  wan,  and  eyes  so  bright  and  glassy,  that  it  was  fear- 
ful to  meet  their  gaze.  On  every  face  was  stamped  the  ex- 
pression of  anguish  and  suffering. 

The  object  of  the  visit  was  lying  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
room.  She  was  a  fine  young  woman  of  about  two  or  three 
and  twenty.  Her  long  black  hair,  which  had  been  hastily  cut 
from  near  the  wounds  on  her  head,  streamed  over  the  pillow 
in  jagged  and  matted  locks.  Her  face  bore  deep  marks  of 
the  ill-usage  she  had  received:  her  hand  was  pressed  upon 
her  side,  as  if  her  chief  pain  were  there  ;  her  breathing  was 
short  and  heavy;  and  it  was  plain  to  see  that  she  was  dying 
fast.  She  murmured  a  few  words  in  reply  to  the  magistrate's 
inquiry  whether  she  was  in  great  pain  ;  and,  having  been 
raised  on  the  pillow  by  the  nurse,  looked  vacantly  upon  the 
strange  countenances  that  surrounded  her  bed.  The  magis- 
trate nodded  to  the  officer,  to  bring  the  man  forward.  He 
did  so,  and  stationed  him  at  the  bedside.  The  girl  looked  on 
with  a  wild  and  troubled  expression  of  face  ;  but  her  sight 
was  dim,  and  she  did  not  know  him. 

"  Take  off  his  hat,''  said  the  magistrate.-  The  officer  did 
as  he  was  desired,  and  the  man's  features  were  disclosed. 

The  girl  started  up,  with  an  energy  quite  preternatural  ; 
the  fire  gleamed  in  her  heavy  eyes,  and  the  blood  rushed  to 
her  pale  and  sunken  cheeks.  It  was  a  convulsive  effort.  She 
fell  back  upon  her  pillow,  and  covering  her  scarred  and 
bruised  face  with  her  hands,  burst  into  tears.  The  man  cast 
an  anxious  look  towards  her,  but  otherwise  appeared  wholly 
unmoved.  After  a  brief  pause  the  nature  of  the  errand  was 
explained,  and  the  oath  tendered. 

Oh,  no,  gentlemen,"  said  the  girl,  raising  herself  once 
more,  and  folding  her  hands  together ;  "  no,  gentlemen,  for 
God's  sake  !  I  did  it  myself — it  was  nobody's  fault — it  was 
an  accident.  He  didn't  hurt  me  ;  he  wouldn't  for  all  the 
world.    Jack,  dear  Jack,  you  know  you  wouldn't !  " 

Her  sight  was  fast  failing  her,  and  her  hand  groped  over 
the  bedclothes  in  search  of  his.  Brute  as  the  man  was,  he 
was  not  prepared  for  this.  He  turned  his  face  from  the  bed, 
and  sobbed.  The  girl's  color  changed,  and  her  breathing 
grew  more  difficult.    She  was  evidently  dying. 

We  respect  the  feeling-s  which  prompt  you  to  this,"  said 


MISPLA CED  A  TTA  CHMENT  OF  MR.  JOHN  BOUNCE,  577 


the  gentleman  who  had  spoken  first,  "  but  let  me  warn  you, 
not  to  persist  in  what  you  know  to  be  untrue,  until  it  is  too 
late.    It  cannot  save  him." 

"Jack,"  murmured  the  girl,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm, 
they  shall  not  persuade  me  to  swear  your  life  away.  He 
didn't  do  it,  gentlemen.  He  never  hurt  me."  She  grasped 
his  arm  tightly,  and  added,  in  a  broken  whisper,  "  I  hope 
God  Almighty  will  forgive  me  all  the  wrong  I  have  done,  and 
the  life  I  have  led.  God  bless  you.  Jack.  Some  kind  gentle- 
man take  my  love  to  my  poor  old  father.  Five  years  ago,  he 
said  he  wished  I  had  died  a  child.  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  !  I  wish 
I  had  ! " 

The  nurse  bent  over  the  girl  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then 
drew  the  sheet  over  her  face.    It  covered  a  corpse. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  MISPLACED  ATTACHMENT  OF  MR.  JOHN  BOUNCE. 

If  we  had  to  make  a  classification  of  society,  there  are  a 
particular  kind  of  men  whom  we  should  immediately  set  down 
under  the  head  of  "  Old  Boys  ; "  and  a  column  of  most  ex- 
tensive dimensions  the  old  boys  would  require.  To  what 
precise  causes  the  rapid  advance  of  old  boy  population  is  to 
be  traced,  we  are  unable  to  determine.  It  would  be  an  in- 
teresting and  curious  speculation,  but,  as  we  have  not  sufficient 
space  to  devote  to  it  here,  we  simply  state  the  fact  that  the  num- 
bers of  the  old  boys,  have  been  gradually  augmenting  within 
the  last  few  years,  and  that  they  are  at  this  moment  alarmingly 
on  the  increase. 

Upon  a  general  review  of  the  subject,  and  without  con- 
sidering it  minutely  in  detail,  we  should  be  disposed  to  sub- 
divide the  old  boys  into  two  distinct  classes — the  gay  old  boys, 
and  the  steady  old  boys.  The  gay  old  boys,  are  paunchy  old 
men  in  the  disguise  of  young  ones,  who  frequent  the  Quad- 
rant and  Regent-street  in  the  day  time  ;  the  theatres  (especi- 
ally  theatres  under  lady  management)  at  night ;  and  who  as- 
sume all  the  foppishness  and  levity  of  boys,  without  the 
excuse  of  youth  or  inexperience.    The  steady  old  boys  are  cer* 


578 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ, 


tain  stout  old  gentlemen  of  clean  appearance,  who  are  always 
to  be  seen  in  the  same  taverns,  at  the  same  hours  every  even- 
ing, smoking  and  drinking  in  the  same  company. 

There  was  once  a  fine  collection  of  old  boys  to  be  seen 
round  the  circular  table  at  Offley's  every  night,  between  the  hours 
of  half-past  eight  and  half-past  eleven.  We  have  lost  sight  of 
them  for  some  time.  There  were,  and  may  be  still,  for  aught 
we  know,  two  splendid  specimens  in  full  blossom  at  the 
Rainbow  Tavern  in  Fleet-street,  who  always  used  to  sit  in  the 
box  nearest  the  fireplace,  and  smoked  long  cherry-stick  pipes 
which  went  under  the  table,  with  the  bowls  resting  on  the 
floor.  Grand  old  boys  they  were — fat,  red-faced,  white-headed 
old  fellows — always  there — one  on  one  side  the  table,  and  the 
other  opposite  puffing  and  drinking  away  ni  great  state. 
Everybody  knew  them,  and  it  was  supposed  by  some  people 
that  they  were  both  immortal. 

Mr.  John  Dounce  was  an  old  boy  of  the  latter  class  (we 
don't  mean  immortal,  but  steady),  a  retired  glove  and  braces 
maker,  a  widower,  resident  with  three  daughters — all  grown 
up,  and  all  unmarried — in  Cursitor-street,  Chancery-lane.  He 
was  a  short,  round,  large-faced,  tubbish  sort  of  man,  with  a 
broad-brimmed  hat,  and  a  square  coat ;  and  had  that  grave, 
but  confident,  kind  of  roll,  peculiar  to  old  boys  in  general. 
Regular  as  clockwork — breakfast  at  nine — dress  and  tittivate 
a  little — down  to  the  Sir  Somebody's  Head — a  glass  of  ale 
and  the  paper — come  back  again,  and  take  daughters  out  for 
a  walk — dinner  at  three — glass  of  grog  and  pipe— nap — tea — 
little  walk — Sir  Somebody's  Head  again  —  capital  house — 
delightful  evenings.  There  were  Mr.  Harris,  the  law-stationer, 
and  Mr.  Jennings,  the  rope-maker  (two  jolly  young  fellows 
like  himself),  and  Jones,  the  barrister's  clerk — rum  fellow  that 
Jones — capital  company — full  of  anecdote  ! — and  there  they 
sat  every  night  till  just  ten  minutes  before  twelve,  drinking 
their  brandy-and-water,  and  smoking  their  pipes,  and  telling 
stories,  and  enjoying  themselves  with  a  kind  of  solemn  jovi- 
ality particularly  edifying. 

Sometimes  Jones  would  propose  a  half-price  visit  to  Drury 
Lane  or  Covent  Garden,  to  see  two  acts  of  a  five-act  play,  and 
a  new  farce,  perhaps,  or  a  ballet,  on  which  occasion  the  whole 
four  of  them  went  together ;  none  of  your  hurrying  and  non- 
sense, but  having  their  brandy-and-water  first,  comfortably, 
and  ordering  a  steak  and  some  oysters  for  their  supper 
against  they  came  back,  and  then  walking  coolly  into  the  pit. 


MISPLACED  ATTACHMENT  OF  MR.  JOHN  BOUNCE. 


when  the  "  rush "  had  gone  in,  as  all  sensible  people  do, 
and  did  when  Mr.  Bounce  was  a  young  man,  except  when  the 
celebrated  Master  Betty  was  at  the  height  of  his  popularity, 
and  then,  sir, — then — Mr.  Bounce  perfectly  well  remembered 
getting  a  holiday  from  business  ;  and  going  to  the  pit  doors 
at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  forenoon,  and  waiting  there,  till  six  in 
the  afternoon,  wdth  some  sandwiches  in  a  pocket-handker- 
chief and  some  wine  in  a  phial ;  and  fainting  after  all,  with 
the  heat  and  fatigue  before  the  play  began  ;  in  which  situa- 
tion he  was  lifted  out  of  the  pit,  into  one  of  the  dress  boxes, 
sir,  by  five  of  the  finest  women  of  that  day,  sir,  who  compas- 
sionated his  situation  and  administered  restoratives,  and  sent 
a  black  servant,  six  foot  high,  in  blue  and  silver  livery,  next 
morning  with  their  compliments,  and  to  know  how  he  found 
himself,  sir — by  G — !  Between  the  acts  Mr.  Bounce  and 
Mr.  Harris,  and  Mr.  Jennings,  used  to  stand  up,  and  look 
round  the  house,  and  Jones  —  knowing  fellow  that  Jones — 
knew  everybody — pointed  out  the  fashionable  and  celebrated 
lady  So-and-So  in  the  boxes,  at  the  mention  of  whose  name 
Mr.  Bounce,  after  brushing  up  his  hair,  and  adjusting  his 
neckerchief,  would  inspect  the  aforesaid  Lady  So-and-So 
through  an  immense  glass,  and  remark,  either,  that  she  was  a 
"  fine  woman — very  fine  woman,  indeed,"  or  that  "there  might 
be  a  little  more  of  her, — eh,  Jones  1  "  just  as  the  case  might 
happen  to  be.  When  the  dancing  began,  John  Bounce  and 
the  other  old  boys  were  particularly  anxious  to  see  what  was 
going  forward  on  the  stage,  and  Jones  —  wicked  dog  that 
Jones — whispered  little  critical  remarks  into  the  ears  of  John 
Bounce,  which  John  Bounce  retailed  to  Mr.  Harris,  and  Mr, 
Harris  to  Mr.  Jennings  ;  and  then  they  all  four  laughed,  until 
the  tears  ran  dowm,  out  of  their  eyes. 

When  the  curtain  fell,  they  w^alked  back  together,  two  and 
two,  to  the  steaks  and  oysters  ;  and  when  they  came  to  the 
second  glass  of  brandy-and-water,  Jones  —  hoaxing  scamp 
that  Jones — used  to  recount  how  he  had  observed  a  lady  in 
white  feathers,  in  one  of  the  pit-boxes,  gazing  intently  on  Mr. 
Bounce  all  the  evening,  and  how  he  had  caught  Mr.  Bounce, 
whenever  he  thought  no  one  was  looking  at  hrm,  bestownig 
ardent  looks  of  intense  devotion  on  the  lady  in  return ;  on 
which  Mr.  Harris  and  Mr.  Jennings  used  to  laugh  very  heart- 
ily, and  John  Bounce  more  heartily  than  either  of  them, 
acknowledging,  however,  that  the  time  had  been  when  he 
might  have  done  such  things  ;  upon  which  Mr.  Jones  used  to 


S8o 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


poke  him  in  the  ribs,  and  tell  him  he  had  been  a  sad  dog  in 
Ills  time,  which  John  Bounce,  with  chuckles  confessed.  And 
aftft:  Mr.  Harris  and  Mr.  Jennings  had  preferred  their  claims 
to  the  character  of  having  been  sad  dogs  too,  they  separated 
harmoniously,  and  trotted  home. 

The  decrees  of  P^ate,  and  the  means  by  which  they  are 
brought  about,  are  mysterious  and  inscrutable.  John  Bounce 
had  led  this  life  for  twenty  years  and  upwards,  without  wish 
for  change,  or  care  for  variety,  when  his  whole  social  system 
was  suddenly  upset,  and  turned  completely  topsy-turvy — not 
by  an  earthquake,  or  some  other  dreadful  convulsion  of  nature, 
as  the  reader  would  be  inclined  to  suppose,  but  by  the  simple 
agency  of  an  oyster  ;  and  thus  it  happened. 

Mr.  John  Bounce  was  returning  one  night  from  the  Sir 
Somebody's  Head,  to  his  residence  on  Cursitor-street — not 
tipsy,  but  rather  excited,  for  it  was  Mr.  Jennings's  birthday, 
and  they  had  had  a  brace  of  partridges  for  supper,  and  a  brace 
of  extra  glasses  afterwards,  and  Jones  had  been  more  than 
ordinarily  amusing — when  his  eyes  rested  on  a  newly-opened 
oyster  shop,  on  a  magnificent  scale,  with  natives  laid,  one 
deep,  in  circular  marble  basins  in  the  windows,  together  with 
little  round  barrels  of  oysters  directed  to  Lords  and  Baronets, 
and  Colonels  and  Captains,  in  every  part  of  the  habitable 
globe. 

Behind  the  natives  were  the  barrels,  and  behind  the  barrels 
was  a  young  lady  of  about  five-and-twent}^,  all  in  blue,  and 
all  alone — splendid  creature,  charming  face  and  lovely  fig- 
ure !  It  is  difficult  to  say  whether  Mr.  John  Bounce's  red  coun- 
tenance, illuminated  as  it  was  by  the  flickering  gas-light  in  the 
window  before  which  he  paused,  excited  the  lady's  risibility, 
or  whether  a  natural  exuberance  of  animal  spirits  proved  too 
much  for  that  staidness  of  demeanor  which  the  forms  of 
society  rather  dictatorially  prescribe.  But  certain  it  is,  that 
the  lady  smiled  ;  then  put  her  finger  upon  her  lip,  with  a 
striking  recollection  of  what  was  due  to  herself,  and  finally  re- 
tired, in  oyster-like  bashfulness,  to  the  very  back  of  the 
•counter.  The  sad-dog  sort  of  feeling  came  strongly  upon 
John  Bounce :  he  Ungered — the  lady  in  blue  made  no  sign. 
He  coughed — still  she  came  not.    He  entered  the  shop. 

^'  Can  you  open  me  an  oyster,  my  dear  ?  "  said  Mr.  John 
Bounce. 

"Bare  say  I  can,  sir,"  replied  the  lady  in  blue,  with  play- 
fulness.   And  Mr.  John  Bounce  eat  one  oyster,  and  then 


MIS  PL  A  CED  A  TTA  CHMENT  OF  MR.  JOHN  D  O  UNCE.    58 1 


looked  at  the  young  lady,  and  then  eat  another,  and  then 
squeezed  the  young  lady's  hand  as  she  was  opening  the  third, 
and  so  forth,  until  he  had  devoured  a  dozen  of  those  at  eight- 
pence  in  less  than  no  time. 

"Can  you  open  me  a  half-a-dozen  more,  my  dear?''  in- 
quired Mr.  John  Bounce. 

"  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you,  sir,"  replied  the  young 
lady  in  blue,  even  more  bewitchingly  than  before  ;  and  Mr. 
John  Bounce  eat  half  a  dozen  more  of  those  at  eightpence. 

"  You  couldn't  manage  to  get  me  a  glass  of  brandy-and- 
water,  my  dear,  I  suppose  1  "  said  Mr.  John  Bounce,  when  he 
had  finished  the  oysters ;  in  a  tone  which  clearly  implied  his 
supposition  that  she  could. 

I'll  see,  sir,"  said  the  young  lady ;  and  away  she  ran  out 
of  the  shop,  and  down  the  street,  her  long  auburn  ringlets 
shaking  in  the  wind  in  the  most  enchanting  manner ;  and 
back  she  came  again,  tripping  over  the  coal  cellar  lids  like  a 
whipping-top,  with  a  tumbler  of  brandy-and-water,  which  Mr. 
John  Bounce  insisted  on  her  taking  a  share  of,  as  it  was 
regular  lady's  grog — hot,  strong,  sweet,  and  plenty  of  it. 

So,  the  young  lady  sat  down  with  Mr.  John  Bounce,  in  a 
Kttle  red  box  with  a  green  curtain,  and  took  a  small  sip  of  the 
brandy-and-water,  and  a  small  look  at  Mr.  John  Bounce,  and 
then  turned  her  head  away,  and  went  through  various  other 
serio-pantomimic  fascinations,  which  forcibly  reminded  Mr. 
John  Bounce  of  the  first  time  he  courted  his  first  wife,  and 
which  made  him  feel  more  affectionate  than  ever;  in  pursu- 
ance of  which  affection,  and  actuated  by  which  feeling,  Mr. 
John  Bounce  sounded  the  young  lady  on  her  matrimonial 
engagements,  when  the  young  lady  denied  having  formed  any 
such  engagements  at  all — she  couldn't  abear  the  men,  they 
were  such  deceivers  ;  thereupon  Mr.  John  Bounce  inquired 
whether  this  sweeping  condemnation  was  meant  to  include 
other  than  very  young  men  ;  on  which  the  young  lady  blushed 
deeply — at  least  she  turned  away  her  head,  and  said  Mr. 
John  Bounce  had  made  her  blush,  so  of  course  she  did  blush 
— and  Mr.  John  Bounce  was  a  long  time  drinking  the  brandy- 
and-water  ;  and,  at  last,  John  Bounce  went  home  to  bed,  and 
dreamed  of  his  first  wife,  and  his  second  wife,  and  the  young 
lady,  and  partridges,  and  oysters,  and  brandy-and-water,  and 
disinterested  attachments. 

The  next  morning  John  Bounce  was  rather  feverish  with 
the  extra  brandy-and-water  of  the  previous  night  :  and  partly 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


in  the  hope  of  cooling  himself  with  an  oyster,  and  partly  with 
the  view  of  ascertaining  whether  he  owed  the  young  lady  any- 
thing, or  not,  went  back  to  the  oyster  shop.  If  the  young 
lady  had  appeared  beautiful  by  night,  she  was  perfectly  irre- 
sistible by  day ;  and,  from  this  time  forward,  a  change  came 
over  the  spirit  of  John  Bounce's  dream.  He  bought  shirt- 
pins  ;  wore  a  ring  on  his  third  finger  ;  read  poetry ;  bribed  a 
cheap  miniature-painter  to  perpetrate  a  faint  resemblance  to  a 
youthful  face,  with  a  curtain  over  his  head,  six  large  books  in 
the  background,  and  an  open  country  in  the  distance  (this  he 
called  his  portrait) ;  went  on  "  altogether  in  such  an  up- 
roarious manner  that  the  three  Miss  Bounces  went  off  on 
small  pensions,  he  having  made  the  tenement  in  Cursitor- 
street  too  warm  to  contain  them  ;  and  in  short,  comported 
and  demeaned  himself  in  every  respect  like  an  unmitigated 
old  Saracen,  as  he  was. 

As  to  his  ancient  friends,  the  other  old  boys,  at  the  Sir 
Somebody's  Head,  he  dropped  off  from  them  by  gradual  de- 
grees ;  for,  even  when  he  did  go  there,^  Jones — vulgar  fellow 
that  Jones — persisted  in  asking  "  when  it  was  to  be  ?  "  and 
whether  he  was  to  have  any  gloves  ?  "  together  with  other 
inquiries  of  an  equally  offensive  nature  :  at  which  not  only 
Harris  laughed,  but  Jennings  also  ;  so,  he  cut  the  two,  alto- 
gether, and  attached  himself  solely  to  the  blue  young  lady  at 
the  smart  oyster-shop. 

Now  comes  the  moral  of  the  story — for  it  has  a  moral  after 
all.  The  last  mentioned  young  lady,  having  derived  sufficient 
profit  and  emolument  from  John  Bounce's  attachment,  rot 
only  refused,  when  matters  came  \o  a  crisis,  to  take  l.im  ^or 
better  for  worse,  but  expressly  declared,  to  use  her  own  for- 
cible words,  that  she  wouldn't  have  him  at  no  price  ;  "  and 
John  Bounce,  having  lost  his  old  friends,  alienated  his  rela- 
tions, and  rendered  himself  ridiculous  to  everybody,  made 
offers  successively  to  a  schoolmistress,  a  landlady,  a  feminine 
tobacconist,  and  a  housekeeper ;  and,  being  directly  rejected 
by  each  and  every  of  them,  was  accepted  by  his  cook,  with 
whom  he  now  lives,  a  henpecked  husband,  a  melancholy  mon- 
ument of  antiquated  misery,  and  a  living  warning  to  all  uxo- 
rious  old  boys. 


THE  MISTAKEN  MILLINER, 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  MISTAKEN  MILLINER.     A  TALE  OF  AMBITION. 

Miss  Amelia  Martin  was  pale,  tallish,  thin,  and  two-and- 
thirty — what  ill-natured  people  would  call  plain,  and  police 
reports  interesting.  She  was  a  milliner  and  dressmaker,  living 
on  her  business  and  not  above  it.  If  you  had  been  a  young 
lady  in  service,  and  had  wanted  Miss  Martin,  as  a  great  many 
young  ladies  in  service  did,  you  would  just  have  stepped  up, 
in  the  evening,  to  number  forty-seven,  Drummond-street, 
George-street,  Euston-square,  and  after  casting  your  eye  on  a 
brass  door-plate,  one  foot  ten  by  one  and  a  half,  ornamented 
with  a  great  brass  knob  at  each  of  the  four  corners,  and  bear- 
ing the  inscription  Miss  Martin  ;  millinery  and  dressmaking, 
in  all  its  branches  ; you'd  just  have  knocked  two  loud  knocks 
at  the  street-door ;  and  down  would  have  come  Miss  Martin 
herself,  in  a  merino  gown  of  the  newest  fashion,  black  velvet 
bracelets  on  the  genteelest  principle,  and  other  little  elegan- 
cies of  the  most  approved  description. 

If  Miss  Martin  knew  the  young  lady  who  called,  or  if  the 
young  lady  who  called  had  been  recommended  by  any  other 
young  lady  whom  Miss  Martin  knew.  Miss  Martin  would 
forthwith  show  her  up  stairs  into  the  two-pair  front,  and  chat 
she  would — so  kind,  and  so  comfortable — it  really  wasn't  like 
a  matter  of  business,  she  was  so  friendly  ;  and,  then  Miss 
Martin,  after  contemplating  the  figure  and  general  appearance 
of  the  young  lady  in  service  with  great  apparent  admiration, 
would  say  how  well  she  would  look,  to  be  sure,  in  a  low  dress 
with  short  sleeves  :  made  very  full  in  the  skirts,  with  four 
tucks  in  the  bottom  ;  to  which  the  young  lady  in  service 
would  reply  in  terms  expressive  of  her  entire  concurrence  in 
the  notion,  and  of  the  virtuous  indignation  with  which  she 
reflected  on  the  tyranny  of  "  Missis,"  who  wouldn't  allow  a 
young  girl  to  wear  a  short  sleeve  of  an  arternoon — no,  nor 
nothing  smart,  not  even  a  pair  of  ear-rings  ;  let  alone  hiding 
people's  heads  of  hair  under  them  frightful  caps.  At  the  ter- 
mination of  this  complaint.  Miss  Amelia  Martin  would  distantly 
suggest  certain  dark  suspicions  that  some  people  were  jealous 
on  account  of  their  own  daughters,  and  were  obliged  to  keep 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


their  servants'  charms  under,  for  fear  they  should  get  married 
first,  which  was  no  uncommon  circumstance — leastways  she 
had  known  two  or  three  young  ladies  in  service,  who  had 
married  a  great  deal  better  than  their  missises,  and  they  were 
not  very  good-looking  either  ;  and  then  the  young  lady  would 
inform  Miss  Martin  in  confidence,  that  how  one  of  their 
young  ladies  was  engaged  to  a  young  man  and  was  a-going  to 
be  married,  and  Misses  was  so  proud  about  it  there  was  no 
bearing  of  her  ;  but  how  she  needn't  hold  her  head  quite  so 
high  neither,  for,  after  all,  he  was  only  a  clerk.  And,  after 
expressing  due  contempt  for  clerks  in  general,  and  the  engaged 
clerk  in  particular,  and  the  highest  opinion  possible  of  them 
selves  and  each  other,  Miss  Martin  and  the  young  lady  in  ser- 
vice would  bid  each  other  good-night,  in  a  friendly  but  per- 
fectly genteel  manner  ;  and  the  one  went  back  to  her  "place," 
and  the  other,  to  her  room  on  the  second-floor  front. 

There  is  no  saying  how  long  Miss  Amelia  Martin  might 
have  continued  this  course  of  life  ;  how  extensive  a  connec- 
tion she  might  have  established  among  young  ladies  in  service  ; 
or  what  amount  her  demands  upon  their  quarterly  receipts 
might  have  ultimately  attained,  had  not  an  unforeseen  train 
of  circumstances  directed  her  thoughts  to  a  sphere  of  action 
very  different  from  dressmaking  or  millinery. 

A  friend  of  Miss  Martin's  who  had  long  been  keeping 
company  with  an  ornamental  painter  and  decorator's  journey- 
man, at  last  consented  (on  being  at  last  asked  to  do  so)  to 
name  the  day  which  would  make  the  aforesaid  journeyman  a 
happy  husband.  It  was  a  Monday  that  was  appointed  for  the 
celebration  of  the  nuptials,  and  Miss  Amelia  Martin  was  in- 
vited, among  others,  to  honor  the  wedding-dinner  with  her 
presence.  It  was  a  charming  party  ;  Somers'-town  the  local- 
ity, and  a  front  parlor  the  apartment.  The  ornamental 
painter  and  decorator's  journeyman  had  taken  a  house — no 
lodgings  nor  vulgarity  of  that  kind,  but  a  house — four  beau- 
tiful rooms,  and  a  delightful  little  washhouse  at  the  end  of  the 
passage — which  was  the  most  convenient  thing  in  the  world, 
for  the  bridesmaids  could  sit  in  the  front  parlor  and  receive  ^ 
the  company,  and  then  run  into  the  little  washhouse  and  see 
how  the  pudding  and  boiled  pork  were  getting  on  in  the  cop- 
per, and  then  pop  back  into  the  parlor  again,  as  snug  and 
comfortable  as  possible.  And  such  a  parlor  as  it  was  !  Beau- 
tiful Kidderminster  carpet  —  six  bran-new  cane-bottomed, 
stained  chairs — three  wineglasses  and  a  tumbler  on  each  side 


THE  MISTAKEN  MILLINER. 


board — farmer's  girl  and  farmer's  boy  on  the  mantelpiece : 
girl  tumbling  over  a  stile,  and  boy  spitting  himself,  on  .the 
handle  -of  a  pitchfork — long  white  dimity  curtains  in  the  win- 
dow— and,  in  short,  everything  on  the  most  genteel  scale 
imaginable. 

Then,  the  dinner.  There  was  baked  leg  of  mutton  at  the 
top,  boiled  leg  of  mutton  at  the  bottom,  pair  of  fowls  and  leg 
of  pork  in  the  middle  ;  porter-pots  at  the  corners  ;  jDepper, 
mustard,  and  vinegar  in  the  centre;  vegetables  on  the  floor; 
and  plum-pudding  and  apple-pie  and  tartlets  without  number : 
to  say  nothing  of  cheese,  and  celery,  and  water-cresses,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  As  to  the  company  !  Miss  Amelia 
Martin  herself  declared,  on  a  subsequent  occasion,  that,  much 
as  she  had  heard  of  the  ornamental  painter's  journeyman's 
connection,  she  never  could  have  supposed  it  was  half  so  gen- 
teel. There  was  his  father,  such  a  tunny  old  gentleman — and 
his  mother,  such  a  dear  old  lady — and  his  sister,  such  a  charm- 
ing girl — and  his  brother,  such  a  manly-looking  young  man — 
with  such  a  eye  !  But  even  all  these  were  as  nothing  when 
compared  with  his  musical  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jennings 
Rodolph,  from  White  Conduit,  with  whom  the  ornamental 
painter's  journeyman  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  contract 
an  intimacy  while  engaged  in  decorating  the  concert- room  of 
that  noble  institution.  To  hear  them  sing  separately,  was 
divine,  but  when  they  went  through  the  tragic  duet  of  Red 
Ruffian,  retire  !  "  it  was,  as  Miss  Martin  afterwards  remarked, 
thrilling.'''  And  w4iy  (as  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph  observed) 
why  were  they  not  engaged  at  one  of  the  patent  theatres  ?  If 
he  was  to  be  told  that  their  voices  were  not  powerful  enough 
to  fill  the  House,  his  only  reply  was,  that  he  v/ould  back  him- 
self for  any  amount  to  fill  Russell-square — a  statement  in 
which  the  company,  after  hearing  the  duet  expressed  their  full 
belief  ;  so  they  all  said  it  was  shameful  treatment ;  and  both 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jennings  Rodolph  said  it  was  shameful  too  ; 
and  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph  looked  very  serious,  and  said  he 
knew  who  his  malignant  opponents  were,  but  they  had  better 
take  care  how  far  they  went,  for  if  they  irritated  him  too  much 
he  had  not  quite  made  up  his  mind  whether  he  wouldn't  bring 
the  subject  before  Parliament ;  and  they  all  agreed  that  it 
"  'ud  serve  'em  quite  right,  and  it  was  very  proper  that  such 
people  should  be  made  an  example  of."  So  Mr.  Jennings 
Rodolph  said  he'd  think  of  it. 

When  the  conversation  resumed  its  former  tone,  Mr.  Jen- 


586 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


nings  Rodolph  claimed  his  right  to  call  upon  a  lady,  and  the 
right  being  conceded,  trusted  Miss  Martin  would  favor  the 
company — a  proposal  which  met  with  unanimous  approbation, 
whereupon  Miss  Martin,  after  sundry  hesitatings  and  cough- 
ings,  with  a  preparatory  choke  or  two,  and  an  introductory 
declaration  that  she  was  frightened  to  death  to  attempt  it  be- 
fore such  great  judges  of  the  art,  commenced  a  species  of 
treble  chirruping  containing  frequent  allusions  to  some  young 
gentleman  of  the  name  of  Hen-e-ry,  with  an  occasional  refer- 
ence to  madness  and  broken  hearts.  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph, 
frequently  interrupted  the  progress  of  the  song,  by  ejacula- 
ting "  Beautiful Charming  !  "  —  Brilliant !  "  —  "  Oh  ! 
splendid,"  &c.  ,  and  at  its  close  the  admiration  of  himself, 
and  his  lady,  knew  no  bounds. 

^'  Did  you  ever  hear  so  sweet  a  voice,  my  dear  ?  "  inquired 
Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph  of  Mrs.  Jennings  Rodolph. 

Never ;  indeed  I  never  did,  love  ;  "  replied  Mrs.  Jen- 
nings Rodolph. 

"  Don't  you  think  Miss  Martin,  with  a  little  cultivation, 
would  be  very  like  Signora  Marra  Boni,  my  dear  "  asked 
Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph. 

"  Just  exactly  the  very  thing  that  struck  me,  my  love  ; " 
answered  Mrs.  Jennings  Rodolph. 

And  thus  the  time  passed  away  ;  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph 
played  tunes  on  a  walking-stick,  and  then  went  behind  the 
parlor-door  and  gave  his  celebrated  imitations  of  actors,  edge- 
tools,  and  animals  ;  Miss  Martin  sang  several  other  songs 
with  increased  admiration  every  time ;  and  even  the  funny  old 
gentleman  began  singing.  His  song  had  properly  seven 
verses,  but  as  he  couldn't  recollect  more  than  the  first  one  he 
sang  that  over,  seven  times,  apparently  very  much  to  his  own 
personal  gratification.  And  then  all  then  all  the  company 
sang  the  national  anthem  with  national  independence — each 
for  himself,  without  reference  to  the  other — and  finally  sepa- 
rated :  all  declaring  that  they  never  spent  so  pleasant  an  even- 
ing :  and  Miss  Martin  inwardly  resolving  to  adopt  the  advice 
of  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph,  and  to    come  out  "  without  delay. 

Now,  coming  out,"  either  in  acting,  or  singing,  or  socie- 
ty, or  facetiousness,  or  anything  else,  is  all  very  well,  and  re- 
markably pleasant  to  the  individual  principally  concerned,  if 
he  or  she  can  but  manage  to  come  out  witli  a  burst,  and  being 
out,  to  keep  out,  and  not  go  in  again ;  but,  it  does  unfortu- 
nately happen  that  both  consummations  are  extremely  diffi- 


THE  MISTAKEN  MILLINER. 


5^7 


cult  to  accomplish,  and  that  the  difficulties,  of  getting  out  at 
all  in  the  first  instance,  and  if  you  surmount  them,  of  keeping 
out  in  the  second,  are  pretty  much  on  a  par,  and  no  slight 
ones  either — and  so  Miss  Amelia  Martin  shortly  discovered. 
It  is  a  singular  fact  (there  being  ladies  in  the  case)  that  Miss 
Amelia  Martin's  principal  foible  was  vanity,  and  the  leading 
characteristic  of  Mrs.  Jennings  Rodolph  an  attachment  to 
dress.  Dismal  wailings  were  heard  to  issue  from  the  second- 
floor  front,  of  number  forty-seven,  Drummond-street,  George- 
street,  Euston-square  ;  it  was  Miss  Martin  practising.  Half- 
suppressed  murmurs  disturbed  the  calm  dignity  of  the  White 
Conduit  orchestra  at  the  commencement  of  the  season.  It 
was  the  appearance  of  Mrs.  Jennings  Rodolph  in  full  dress, 
that  occasioned  them.  Miss  Martin  studied  incessantly — the 
practising  was  the  consequence.  Mrs.  Jennings  Rodolph 
taught  gratuitously  now  and  then — the  dresses  were  the  result. 

Weeks  passed  away  ;  the  White  Conduit  season  had  be- 
gun, and  progressed,  and  was  more  than  half  over.  The 
dressmaking  business  had  fallen  off,  from  neglect ,  and  its 
profits  had  dwindled  away  almost  imperceptibly.  A  benefit- 
night  approached  ;  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph  yielded  to  the 
earnest  solicitations  of  Miss  Amelia  Martin,  and  introduced 
her  personally  to  the  "  coniic  gentleman  "  whose  benefit  it 
was.  The  comic  gentleman  was  all  smiles  and  blandness — 
he  had  composed  a  duet,  expressly  for  the  occasion,  and  Miss 
Martin  should  sing  it  with  him.  The  night  arrived  ;  there 
was  an  immense  room — ninety-seven  sixpenn'orths  of  gin- 
and-water,  thirty-two  small  glasses  of  brandy-and-water,  five- 
and-twenty  bottled  ales,  and  forty-one  neguses  :  and  the  orna- 
mental painter's  journeyman,  with  his  wife  and  a  select  circle 
of  acquaintance,  were  seated  at  one  of  the  side  tables  near 
the  orchestra.  The  concert  began.  Song — sentimental — by  a 
light-haired  young  gentleman  in  a  blue  coat,  and  bright  basket 
buttons — [applause].  Another  song,  doubtful,  by  another  gen- 
tleman in  another  blue  coat  and  more  bright  basket  buttons — 
[increased  applause].  Duet,  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph,  and  Mrs. 
Jennings  Rodolph,  "  Red  Ruffian,  retire  !  " — [great  applause.] 
Solo,  Miss  Julia  Montague  (positively  on  this  occasion  only)— - 
^'  I  am  a  Friar  " — [enthusiasm].  Original  duet,  comic — Mr.  H. 
Taplin  (the  comic  gentleman)  and  Miss  Martin — "  The  Time 
of  Day."  "  Brayvo  ! — Brayvo  !  "  cried  the  ornamental  painter's 
journeyman's  party,  as  Miss  Martin  was  gracefully  led  in  by 
the  comic  gentleman.    *'  Go  to  work,  Harry,"  cried  the  comic 


588 


SKETCHES  BY  DOZ, 


gentleman's  personal  friends.  Tap — tap — tap,"  went  the 
leader's  bow  on  the  music-desk.  The  symphony  began,  and 
was  soon  afterwards  followed  by  a  faint  kind  of  ventriloquial 
chirping,  proceeding  apparently  from  the  deepest  recesses  of 
the  interior  of  Miss  Amelia  Martin.  "  Sing  out " — shouted 
one  gentleman  in  a  white  great-coat.  Don't  be  afraid  to 
put  the;  steam  on,  old  gal,"  exclaimed  another,  "  S — s — s — s — 
s — s — s" — went  the  five-and  twenty -bottled  ales.  Shame, 
shame  !  "  remonstrated  the  ornamental  painter's  journeyman's 
party — S — s — s — s  " — went  the  bottled  ales  again,  accom- 
panied by  all  the  gins,  and  a  majority  of  the  brandies. 

Turn  them  geese  out,"  cried  the  ornamental  painter's 
journeyman's  party,  with  great  indignation. 

"  Sing  out,"  whispered  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph 
"  So  I  do,"  responded  Miss  Amelia  Martin. 

Sing  louder,"  said  Mrs.  Jennings  Rodolph, 
"  I  can't,"  replied  Miss  Amelia  Martin, 
"  Off,  off,  off,"  cried  the  rest  of  the  audience. 
"  Bray-vo  !  '^  shouted  the  painter's  party.    It  wouldn't  do 
— Miss  Amelia  Martin  left  the  orchestra,  with  much  less  cer- 
emony than  she  had  entered  it ;  and,  as  she  couldn't  sing  out, 
never  came  out.    The  general  good-humor  was  not  restored 
until  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph  had  become  purple  in  the  face, 
by  imitating  divers  quadrupeds  for  half  an  hour,  without  being 
able  to  render  himself  audible  ;  and,  to  this  day,  neither  has 
Miss  Amelia  Martin's  good-humor  been  restored,  nor  the 
dresses  made  for  and  presented  to  Mrs.  Jennings  Rodolph, 
nor  the  vocal  abilities  which  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph  once 
staked  his  professional  reputation  that  Miss  Martin  possessed. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  DANCING  ACADEMY. 

Of  all  the  dancing  academies  that  ever  were  established, 
there  never  was  one  more  popular  in  its  immediate  vicinity 
than  Signer  Billsmethi's,  of  the  King's  Theatre."  It  was 
not  in  Spring-gardens,  or  Newman-street,  or  Berners-street, 
or  Gower-street,  or  Charlotte-street,  or  Percy-street,  or  anj 


THE  DANCING  ACADEMY. 


S89 


Other  of  the  numerous  streets,  which  have  been  devoted  time 
out  of  mind  to  professional  people,  dispensaries,  and  board- 
ing-houses ;  it  was  not  in  the  West-end  at  all — it  rather  ap- 
proximated to  the  eastern  portion  of  London^  being  situated 
in  the  populous  and  improving  neighborhood  of  Gray's-inn- 
lane.  It  was  not  a  dear  dancing  academy — four-and-sixpence 
a  quarter  is  decidedly  cheap  upon  the  whole.  It  was  very 
select,  the  number  of  pupils  being  strictly  limited  to  seventy 
five,  and  a  quarter's  payment  in  advance  being  rigidly  ex- 
acted. There  was  public  tuition  and  private  tuition — an  as- 
sembly-room and  a  parlor.  Signor  Billsmethi's  family  were 
always  thrown  in  with  the  parlor,  and  mcluded  in  parlor 
price  ;  that  is  to  say,  a  private  pupil  had  Signor  Billsmethi's 
parlor  to  dance  and  Signor  Billsmethi's  family  to  dance 
with ;  and  when  he  had  been  sufficiently  broken  in  in  the 
parlor,  he  began  to  run  in  couples  in  the  Assembly  room. 

Such  was  the  dancing  academy  of  Signor  Billsmethi,  when 
Mr.  Augustus  Cooper,  of  Fetter-lane,  first  saw  an  unstamped 
advertisement  walking  leisurely  down  Holborn-hill,  announc- 
ing to  the  world  that  Signor  Billsmethi,  of  the  King's  The- 
atre, intended  opening  for  the  season  with  a  Grand  Ball. 

Now,  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper  was  in  the  oil  and  "color  line 
— just  of  age,  with  a  little  money,  a  little  business,  and  a 
little  mother,  who,  having  managed  her  husband  and  his  busi- 
ness 'n  his  lifetime,  took  to  managing  her  son  and  his  busi- 
ness p.£ter  his  decease  ;  and  so,  somehow  or  other,  he  had 
been  cooped  up  in  the  little  back  parlor  behind  the  shop  on 
week-days,  and  in  a  little  deal  box  without  a  lid  (called  by 
courtesy  a  pew)  at  Bethel  Chapel,  on  Sundays,  and  had  seen 
no  more  of  the  world  than  if  he  had  been  an  infant  all  his 
days  ;  whereas  Young  White,  at  the  gas-fitter's  over  the  way, 
three  years  younger  than  him,  had  been  flaring  away  like 
winkin' — going  to  the  theatre — supping  at  harmonic  meetings 
— eating  oysters  by  the  barrel — drinking  stout  by  the  gallon — - 
even  stopping  out  all  night,  and  coming  home  as  cool  in  the 
morning  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  So  Mr.  Augustus 
Cooper  made  up  his  mind  that  he  v/ould  not  stand  it  any 
longer,  and  had  that  very  morning  expressed  to  his  mother  a 
firm  determination  to  be  blowed,''  in  the  event  of  his  not 
being  instantly  provided  with  a  street-door  key.  And  he  was 
walking  down  Holborn-hill,  thinking  about  all  these  things, 
and  wondering  how  he  could  manage  to  get  introduced  into 
genteel  society  for  the  first  time,  when  his  eyes  rested  on 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


Signer  Billsmethi's  announcement,  which  it  immediately 
struck  him  was  just  the  very  thmg  he  wanted  ;  for  he  should 
not  only  be  able  to  select  a  genteel  circle  of  acquaintance  at 
once,  out  of  the  five-and-seventy  pupils  at  four-and-sixpence  a 
quarter,  but  should  qualify  himself  at  the  same  time  to  go 
through  a  hornpipe  in  private  society,  with  perfect  ease  to 
himself  and  great  delight  to  his  friends.  So,  he  stopped  the 
unstamped  advertisement — an  animated  sandwich,  composed 
of  a  boy  between  two  boards — and  having  procured  a  very 
small  card  with  the  Signer's  address  indented  thereon,  walked 
straight  at  once  to  the  Signer's  house — and  very  fast  he 
walked  too,  for  fear  the  list  should  be  filled  up,  and  the  five- 
and-seventy  completed,  before  he  got  there.  The  Signor  was 
at  home,  and,  what  was  still  more  gratifying,  he  was  an  Eng- 
lishman !  Such  a  nice  man — and  so  polite  !  The  list  was 
not  full,  but  it  was  a  most  extraordinary  circumstance  that 
there  was  only  just  one  vacancy,  and  even  that  one  would 
have  been  filled  up,  that  very  morning,  only  Signor  Billsmethi 
was  dissatisfied  with  the  reference,  and,  being  very  much 
afraid  that  the  lady  wasn't  select,  wouldn't  take  her. 

"And  very  much  delighted  I  am,  Mr.  Cooper,"  said  Sig- 
nor Billsmethi,  "  that  I  did  not  take  her.  I  assure  you,  Mr. 
Cooper — I  don't  say  it  to  flatter  you,  for  I  know  you're 
above  it — that  I  consider  myself  extremely  fortunate  in  hav- 
ing a  gentleman  of  your  manners  and  appearance,  sir." 

"  1  am  very  glad  of  it  too,  sir,"  said  Augustus  Cooper. 

"  And  I  hope  we  shall  be  better  acquainted,  sir,"  said 
Signor  Billsmethi. 

"And  I'm  sure  I  hope  v/e  shall  too,  sir,"  responded  Au- 
gustus Cooper.  Just  then,  the  door  opened,  and  in  came  a 
young  lady,  with  her  hair  curled  in  a  crop  all  over  her  head, 
and  her  shoes  tied  in  sandals  all  over  her  ankles. 

"  Don't  run  away,  my  dear,"  said  Signor  Billsmethi  ;  for 
the  young  lady  didn't  know  Mr.  Cooper  was  there  when  she 
ran  in,  and  was  going  to  run  out  again  in  her  modesty,  all  in 
confusion-like.  "  Don't  run  away,  my  dear,"  said  Signor  Bill- 
smethi,  "this  is  Mr.  Cooper — Mr.  Cooper,  of  Fetter-lane. 
Mr,  Cooper,  my  daughter,  sir — Miss  Billsmethi,  sir,  who  I 
hope  will  have  the  pleasure  of  dancing  many  a  quadrille, 
minuet,  gavotte,  country-dance,  fandango,  double-hornpipe, 
and  farinagholkajingo  with  you,  sir.  She  dances  them  all, 
sir;  and  so  shall  you,  sir,  before  you're  a  quarter  older,  sir." 

And  Signor  Billsmethi  slapped  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper  or 


THE  DANCING  ACADEMY. 


59' 


the  back,  as  if  he  had  known  him  a  dozen  years, — so  friendly , 
— and  Mr.  Cooper  bowed  to  the  young  lady,  and  the  young 
lady  curtseyed  to  him,  and  Signer  Billsmethi  said  they  were 
as  handsome  a  pair  as  ever  he'd  wish  to  see  ;  upon  which  the 
young  lady  exclaimed,  "  Lor,  Pa  !  "  and  blushed  as  red  as  Mr. 
Cooper  himself — you  might  have  thought  they  were  both 
standing  under  the  red  lamp  at  a  chemist's  shop  ;  and  before 
Mr.  Cooper  went  away  it  was  settled  that  he  should  joui  the 
family  circle  that  very  night — taking  them  just  as  they  were — 
no  ceremony  nor  nonsense  of  that  kind — and  learn  his  posi- 
tions in  order  that  he  might  lose  no  time,  and  be  able  to  come 
out  at  the  forthcoming  ball. 

Well  ;  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper  went  away  to  one  of  the 
cheap  shoemakers'  shops  in  Holborn,  where  gentlemen's  dress- 
pumps  are  seven  and  sixpence,  and  men's  strong  walking  just 
nothing  at  all,  and  bought  a  pair  of  the  regular  seven-and-six- . 
penny,  long-quartered,  town  mades,  in  which  he  astonished 
himself  quite  as  much  as  his  mother,  and  sallied  forth  to  Sig- 
ner Billsmethi's.  There  were  four  other  private  pupils,  in 
the  parlor  :  two  ladies  and  two  gentlemen.  Such  nice  people  ! 
Not  a  bit  of  pride  about  them.  One  of  the  ladies  in  particu- 
lar, who  was  in  training  for  a  Columbine,  was  remarkably 
affable  ;  and  she  and  Miss  Billsmethi  took  such  an  interest  m 
Mr.  Augustus  Cooper,  and  joked,  and  smiled,  and  looked  so 
bewitching,  that  he  got  quite  at  home,  and  learnt  his  steps  in 
no  time-  After  the  practising  was  over,  Signor  Billsmethi, 
and  Miss  Billsmethi,  and  Master  Billsmethi,  and  a  young 
lady,  and  the  two  ladies,  and  the  two  gentlemen,  danced  a 
quadrille — none  of  your  slipping  and  sliding  about,  but  regu- 
lar warm  work,  flying  into  corners,  and  diving  among  chairs, 
and  shooting  out  at  the  door,  —  something  like  dancing ! 
Signor  Billsmethi  in  particular,  notwithstanding  his  having  a 
little  fiddle  to  play  all  the  time,  w^as  out  on  the  landing  every 
figure,  and  Master  Billsmethi,  when  everybody  else  was 
breathless,  danced  a  hornpipe,  with  a  cane  in  his  hand,  and  a 
cheese-plate  on  his  head,  to  the  unqualified  admiration  of  the 
whole  company.  Then,  Signor  Billsmethi  insisted  as  they 
were  so  happy,  that  they  should  all  stay  to  supper,  and  pro- 
posed sending  Master  Billsmethi  for  the  beer  and  spirits, 
whereupon  the  two  gentlemen  swore,  "  strike  'em  wulgar  if 
they'd  stand  that ; "  and  were  just  going  to  quarrel  who 
should  pay  for  it,  when  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper  said  he  would, 
if  they'd  have  the  kindness  to  allow  him — and  they  had  the 


592 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


kindness  to  allow  him  ;  and  Master  Billsmethi  brought  the 
beer  in  a  can,  and  the  rum  in  a  quart-pot.  They  had  a  regu- 
ular  night  of  it ;  and  Miss  Billsmethi  squeezed  Mr.  Augustus 
Cooper's  hand  under  the  table  ;  and  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper 
returned  the  squeeze,  and  returned  home  too,  at  something  to 
six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  he  was  put  to  bed  by  main 
force  by  the  apprentice,  after  repeatedly  expressing  an  uncon- 
trollable desire  to"  pitch  his  revered  parent  out  of  the  second- 
floor  window,  and  to  throttle  the  apprentice  with  his  own 
neck-handkerchief. 

Weeks  had  worn  on,  and  the  seven-and-sixpenny  town- 
mades  had  nearly  worn  out,  when  the  night  arrived  for  the 
grand  dress-ball  at  which  the  whole  of  the  five-and-seventy 
pupils  were  to  meet  together,  for  the  first  time  that  season, 
and  to  take  out  some  portion  of  their  respective  four-and- 
sixpences  in  lamp-oil  and  fiddlers.  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper 
had  ordered  a  new  coat  for  the  occasion — a  two-pound-tenner 
from  Turnstile.  It  was  his  first  appearance  in  public  ;  and, 
after  a  grand  Sicilian  shawl-dance  by  fourteen  young  ladies 
in  character,  he  was  to  opgn  the  quadrille  department  with 
Miss  Billsmethi  herself,  with  whom  he  had  become  quite 
intimate  since  his  first  introduction.  It  was  a  night !  Every- 
thing was  admirably  arranged.  The  sandwich-boy  took  the 
hats  and  bonnets  at  the  street-door  ;  there  was  a  turn-up 
bedstead  in  the  back  parlor,  oii  which  Miss  Billsmethi  made 
tea  and  coffee  for  such  of  the  gentlemen  chose  to  pay  for  it, 
and  such  of  the  ladies  as  the  gentlemen  treated  ;  red  port- 
wine  negus  and  lemonade  were  handed  round  at  eighteen- 
pence  a  head  ;  and  in  pursuance  of  a  previous  engagement 
with  the  public-house  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  an  extra  pot- 
boy was  laid  on  for  the  occasion.  In  short,  nothing  could 
exceed  the  arrangements,  except  the  company.  Such  ladies  ! 
Such  pink  silk  stockings  1  Such  artificial  flowers  !  Such  a 
number  of  cabs  !  No  sooner  had  one  cab  set  down  a  couple 
of  ladies,  than  another  cab  drove  up  and  set  down  another 
couple  of  ladies,  and  they  all  knew  :  not  only  one  another,  but 
the  majority  of  the  gentlemen  into  the  bargain,  which  made  it 
all  as  pleasant  and  lively  as  could  be.  Signer  Billsmethi,  in 
black  tights,  with  a  large  blue  bow  in  his  buttonhole,  intro- 
duced the  ladies  to  such  of  the  gentlemen  as  were  strangers : 
and  the  ladies  talked  away — and  laughed  they  did — it  was 
delightful  to  see  them. 

As  to  the  shawl-dance,  it  was  the  most  exciting  thing  that 


THE  DANCING  ACADEMY. 


593 


ever  was  beheld  ;  there  was  such  a  whisking,  and  rustUng, 
and  fanning,  and  getting  ladies  into  a  tangle  with  artificial 
flowers,  and  then  disentangling  them  again  !  And  as  to  Mr. 
Augustus  Cooper  s  share  in  the  quadrille,  he  got  through  it 
admirably.  He  was  missing  from  his  partner,  now  and  then, 
certainly,  and  discovered  on  such  occasions  to  be  either 
dancing  with  laudable  perseverance  in  another  set,  or  sliding 
about  in  perspective,  without  any  definite  object  ;but,  generally 
speaking,  they  managed  to  shove  him  through  the  figure,  until 
he  turned  up  in  the  right  place.  Be  this  as  it  may,  when  he 
had  finished,  a  great  many  ladies  and  gentlemen  came  up  and 
complimented  him  very  much,  and  said  they  had  never  seen 
a  beginner  do  anything  like  it  before ;  and  Mr.  Augustus 
Cooper  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  himself,  and  everybody 
else  into  the  bargain  ;  and  stood  considerable  quantities  of 
spirits-and-water,  negus,  and  compounds,  for  the  use  and 
behoof  of  two  or  three  dozen  very  particular  friends,  selected 
from  the  select  circle  of  five-and-seventy  pupils. 

Now^,  whether  it  was  the  strength  of  the  compounds,  or 
the  beauty  of  the  ladies,  or  what  not,  it  did  so  happen  that 
Mr.  Augustus  Cooper  encouraged,  rather  than  repelled,  the 
very  flattering  attentions  of  a  young  lady  in  brown  gauze  over 
white  calico  who  had  appeared  particularly  struck  with  him 
from  the  first  ;  and  when  the  encouragements  had  been  pro- 
longed for  some  time,  Miss  Billsmethi  betrayed  her  spite  and 
jealousy  thereat  by  calling  the  young  lady  in  brown  gauze  a 
creeter,"  which  induced  the  young  lady  in  brown  gauze  to 
retort,  in  certain  sentences  containing  a  taunt  founded  on  the 
payment  of  four-and-sixpence  a  quarter,  which  reference  Mr. 
Augustus  Cooper,  being  then  and  there  in  a  state  of  con- 
siderable bewilderment,  expressed  his  entire  concurrence  in. 
Miss  Billsmethi,  thus  renounced,  forthwith  began  screaming 
in  the  loudest  key  of  her  voice,  at  the  rate  of  fourteen 
screams  a  minute  ;  and  being  unsuccessful,  in  an  onslaught  on 
the  eyes  and  face,  first  of  the  lady  m  gauze  and  then  of  Mr. 
Augustus  Cooper,  called  distractedly  on  the  other  three-and- 
seventy  pupils  to  furnish  her  with  oxalic  acid  for  her  own 
private  drinking  ,  and,  the  call  not  being  honored,  made 
another  rush  at  Mr.  Cooper,  and  then  had  her  stay-lace  cut, 
and  was  carried  off  to  bed.  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper,  not  being 
remarkable  for  quickness  of  apprehension,  was  at  a  loss  to 
understand  what  all  this  meant,  until  Signor  Billsmethi  ex- 
plained it  in  a  most  satisfactory  manner,  by  stating  to  the 


594 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


pupils,  that  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper  had  made  and  confirmed 
divers  promises  of  marriage  to  his  daughter  on  divers  occasions, 
and  had  now  basely  deserted  her  ;  on  which,  the  indignation 
of  the  pupils  became  universal  ;  and  as  several  chivalrous 
gentlemen  inquired  rather  pressingly  of  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper, 
whether  he  required  anything  for  his  own  use,  or,  in  other 
words,  whether  he  wanted  anything  for  himself,^'  he  deemed 
it  prudent  to  make  a  precipitate  retreat.  And  the  upshot  of 
the  matter  was,  that  a  lawyer's  letter  came  next  day,  and  an 
action  w^as  commenced  next  week  ;  and  that  Mr.  Augustus 
Cooper,  after  walking  twice  to  the  Serpentine  for  the  purpose 
of  drowning  himself,  and  coming  twice  back  without  doing  it, 
made  a  confidante  of  his  mother,  who  compromised  the  matter 
with  twenty  pounds  from  the  till  :  which  made  twenty  pounds 
four  shillings  and  sixpence  paid  to  Signer  Billsmethi,  exclusive 
of  treats  and  pumps.  And  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper  w^ent  back 
and  lived  ^vith  his  mother,  and  there  he  lives  to  this  day  ;  and 
as  he  has  lost  his  ambition  for  society,  and  never  goes  into 
the  w^orld,  he  will  never  see  this  account  of  himself,  and  will 
never  be  any  the  wiser. 


CHAPTER  X. 

SHABBY-GENTEEL  PEOPLE. 

There  are  certain  descriptions  of  people  who,  oddly 
enough,  appear  to  appertain  exclusively  to  the  metropolis. 
You  meet  them,  every  da}^,  in  the  streets  of  London,  but  no 
one  ever  encounters  them  elsewhere  ;  they  seem  indigenous 
to  the  soil,  and  to  belong  as  exclusively  to  London  as  its  own 
smoke,  or  the  dingy  bricks  and  mortar.  We  could  illustrate 
the  remark  by  a  variety  of  examples,  but,  in  our  present 
sketch,  we  will  only  advert  to  one  class  as  a  specimen — that 
class  which  is  so  aptly  and  expressively  designated  as  "  shabby- 
genteel." 

Now,  shabby  people,  God  knows,  may  be  found  anywhere, 
and  genteel  people  are  not  articles  of  greater  scarcity  out  of 
London  than  in  it ;  but  this  compound  of  the  two — this 
shabby-gentility — is  as  purely  local  as  the  statue  at  Charing- 


\ 


SHABBY-GENTEEL  PEOPLE, 


S9S 


cross,  or  the  pump  at  Aldgate.  It  is  worthy  of  remark,  too, 
that  only  men  are  shabby-genteel ;  a  woman  is  always  either 
dirty  and  slovenly  in  the  extreme,  or  neat  and  respectable, 
however  poverty-stricken  in  appearance.  A  very  poor  man, 
"  who  has  seen  better  days,"  as  the  phrase  goes,  is  a  strange 
compound  of  dirty-slovenliness  and  wretched  attempts  at 
faded  smartness. 

We  will  endeavor  to  explain  our  conception  of  the  termj 
which  forms  the  title  of  this  paper.  If  you  meet  a  man^ 
lounging  up  Drury-Lane,  or  leaning  with  his  back  against  a 
post  in  Long-acre,  with  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  a  pair  of 
drab  trousers  plentifully  besprinkled  with  grease-spots  :  the 
trousers  made  very  full  over  the  boots,  and  ornamented  with 
two  cords  down  the  outside  of  each  leg — wearing,  also,  what 
has  been  a  brown  coat  with  bright  buttons,  and  a  hat  very 
much  pmched  up  at  the  sides,  cocked  over  his  right  eye — 
don't  pity  him.  He  is  not  shabby-genteel.  The  ^'  harmonic 
meetings  "  at  some  fourth-rate  public  house,  or  the  purlieus 
of  a  private  theatre,  are  his  chosen  haunts  ^  he  entertains  a 
rooted  antipathy  to  any  kind  of  work,  and  is  on  familiar  terms 
with  several  pantomime  men  at  the  large  houses.  But,  if  you 
see  hurrying  along  a  by -street,  keeping  as  close  as  he  can  to 
the  area-railings,  a  man  of  about  forty  or  fifty,  clad  m  an  old 
rusty  suit  of  threadbare  black  cloth  which  shines  with  con- 
stant wear  as  if  it  had  been  beeswaxed — the  trousers  tightly 
strapped  down,  partly  for  the  look  of  the  thing  and  partly  to 
keep  his  old  shoes  from  slipping  off  at  the  heels, — if  you 
observe,  too,  that  his  yellowish-white  neckerchief  is  carefully 
pinned  up,  to  conceal  the  tattered  garment  underneath,  and 
that  his  hands  are  encased  in  the  remains  of  an  old  pair  of 
beaver  gloves,  you  may  set  him  down  as  a  shabby-genteel 
man.  A  glance  at  that  depressed  face,  and  timorous  air  of 
conscious  poverty,  will  make  your  heart  ache — always  sup- 
posing that  you  are  neither  a  philosopher  nor  a  political  econ- 
omist 

We  were  once  haunted  by  a  shabby-genteel  man  ;  he  was 
bodily  present  to  our  senses  all  day,  and  he  was  in  our  mind's 
eye  all  night.  The  man  of  whom  Sir  Walter  Scott  speaks  in 
his  Demonology,  did  not  suffer  half  the  persecution  from  his 
imaginary  gentleman-usher  in  black  velvet,  that  we  sustained 
from  our  friend  in  quondam  black  cloth.  He  first  attracted 
our  notice,  by  sitting  opposite  to  us  in  the  reading-room  at 
the  British  Museum ;  and  what  made  the  man  more  remark* 


596 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


able  was,  that  he  always  had  before  him  a  couple  of  shabby 
genteel  books — two  old  dogs-eared  folios,  in  mouldy  worm-eater 
covers,  which  had  once  been  smart.  He  was  in  his  chair, 
every  morning,  just  as  the  clock  struck  ten  ;  he  was  always 
the  last  to  leave  the  room  in  the  afternoon  ;  and  when  he 
did,  he  quitted  it  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  knew  not  where 
else  to  go,  for  warmth  and  quiet.  There  he  used  to  sit  all 
day,  as  close  to  the  table  as  possible,  in  order  to  conceal  the 
lack  of  buttons  on  his  coat  :  with  his  old  hat  carefully  de- 
posited at  his  feet,  where  he  evidently  flattered  himself  it 
escaped  observation. 

About  two  o'clock,  you  would  see  him  munching  a  French 
roll  or  a  penny  loaf ;  not  taking  it  boldly  out  of  his  pocket  at 
once,  like  a  man  who  knew  he  was  only  making  a  lunch  ;  but 
breaking  off  little  bits  in  his  pocket,  and  eating  them  by 
stealth.    He  knew  too  well  it  was  his  dinner. 

When  we  first  saw  this  poor  object,  we  thought  it  quite 
impossible  that  his  attire  could  ever  become  worse.  We  even 
went  so  far,  as  to  speculate  on  the  possibility  of  his  shortly  ap- 
pearing in  a  decent  second-hand  suit.  We  knew  nothing  about 
the  matter  ^  he  grew  more  and  more  shabby-genteel  every 
day.  The  buttons  dropped  off  his  waistcoat,  one  by  one  ; 
then,  he  buttoned  his  coat ;  and  when  one  side  of  his  coat 
was  reduced  to  the  same  condition  as  the  waistcoat,  he  but- 
toned it  over  on  the  other  side.  He  looked  somewhat  better 
at  the  beginning  of  the  week  than  at  the  conclusion,  because 
the  neckerchief,  though  yellow,  was  not  quite  so  dingy  ;  and, 
in  the  midst  of  all  this  wretchedness,  he  never  appeared  with- 
out gloves  and  straps.  He  remained  in  this  state  for  a  week 
or  two.  At  length,  one  of  the  buttons  on  the  back  of  the 
coat  fell  off,  and  then  the  man  himself  disappeared,  and  we 
thought  he  was  dead. 

We  were  sitting  at  the  same  table  about  a  week  after  his 
disappearance,  and  as  our  eyes  rested  on  his  vacant  chair, 
we  insensibly  fell  into  a  train  of  meditation  on  the  subject  of 
his  retirement  from  public  life.  We  were  wondering  whether 
he  had  hung  himself,  or  thrown  himself  off  a  bridge — whether 
he  really  was  dead  or  had  only  been  arrested — when  our  con- 
jectures were  suddenly  set  at  rest  by  the  entry  of  the  man 
himself.  He  had  undergone  some  strange  metamorphosis, 
and  walked  up  the  centre  of  the  room  with  an  air  which 
showed  he  was  fully  conscious  of  the  improvement  in  his  ap- 
pearance.   It  was  very  odd.    His  clothes  were  a  fine,  deep. 


SHABBY-GENTEEL  PEOPLE. 


597 


glossy  black ;  and  yet  they  looked  lik^  the  same  suit ;  nay, 
there  were  the  very  darns  with  which  old  acquaintance  had 
made  us  familiar.  The  hat,  too — nobody  could  mistake  the 
shape  of  that  hat,  with  its  high  crown  gradually  increasing  in 
circumference  towards  the  top.  Long  service  had  imparted 
to  it  a  reddish-brown  tint ;  but,  now,  it  was  as  black  as  the 
coat.  The  truth  flashed  suddenly  upon  us — they  had  been 
''revived."  It  is  a  deceitful  liquid  that  black  and  blue 
reviver ;  we  have  watched  its.  effects  on  many  a  shabby-gen- 
teel man.  It  betrays  its  victims  into  a  temporary  assumption 
of  importance  :  possibly  into  the  purchase  of  a  new  pair  of 
gloves,  or  a  cheap  stock,  or  some  other  trifling  article  of 
dress.  It  elevates  their  spirits  for  a  week,  only  to  depress 
them,  if  possible,  below  their  original  level.  It  was  so  in  this 
case  ;  the  transient  dignity  of  the  unhappy  man  decreased, 
in  exact  proportion  as  the  "  reviver  "  wore  off.  The  knees  of 
the  unmentionables,  and  the  elbows  of  the  coat,  and  the 
seams  generally,  soon  began  to  get  alarmingly  white.  The 
hat  was  once  more  deposited  under  the  table,  and  its  owner 
crept  into  his  seat  as  quietly  as  ever. 

There  was  a  week  of  incessant  small  rain  and  mist.  At 
its  expiration  the  "  reviver  "  had  entirely  vanished,  and  the 
shabby-genteel  man  never  afterwards  attempted  to  effect  any 
improvement  in  his  outward  appearance. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  name  any  particular  part  of  town 
as  the  principal  resort  of  shabby-genteel  men.  We  have  met 
a  great  many  persons  of  this  description  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  inns  of  court.  They  may  be  met  with,  in  Holborn, 
between  eight  and  ten  any  morning  ;  and  whoever  has  the 
curiosity  to  enter  the  Insolvent  Debtors'  Court  will  observe, 
both  among  spectators  and  practitioners,  a  great  variety  of 
them.  We  never  went  on  'Change,  by  any  chance,  without 
seeing  some  shabby-genteel  men,  and  we  have  often  wondered 
what  earthly  business  they  can  have  there.  They  will  sit 
there,  for  hours,  leaning  on  great,  dropsical,  mildewed  um- 
brellas, or  eating  Abernethy  biscuits.  Nobody  speaks  to 
them,  nor  they  to  any  one.  On  consideration,  we  remember 
to  have  occasionally  seen  two  shabby-genteel  men  conversing 
together  on  'Change,  but  our  experience  assures  us  that  this 
is  an  uncommon  circumstance,  occasioned  by  the  offer  of  a 
pinch  of  snuff,  or  some  such  civility. 

It  would  be  a  task  of  equal  difficulty,  either  to  assign  any 
particular  spot  for  the  residence  of  these  beings,  or  to  en- 


59^ 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


deavor  to  enumerate  tl>eir  general  occupations.  We  were  nevei 
engaged  in  business  with  more  than  one  shabby-genteel  man  ^ 
and  he  was  a  drunken  engraver,  and  lived  in  a  damp  black 
parlor  in  a  new  row  of  houses  at  Camden-town,  half  street, 
half  brick-field,  somewhere  near  the  canal.  A  shabby-genteel 
man  may  have  no  occupation,  or  he  may  be  a  corn  agent,  or 
a  coal  agent,  or  a  wine  merchant,  or  a  collector  of  debts,  or 
a  broker's  assistant,  or  a  broken-down  attorney.  He  may  be 
a  clerk  of  the  lowest  description,  or  a  contributor  to  the  press 
of  the  same  grade.  Whether  our  readers  have  noticed  these 
men,  in  their  walks,  as  often  as  we  have,  we  know  not ;  this 
we  know — that  the  miserably  poor  man  (no  matter  whether  he 
owes  his  distresses  to  his  own  conduct,  or  that  of  others)  who 
feels  his  poverty  and  vainly  strives  to  conceal  it,  is  one  of  the 
most  pitiable  objects  in  human  nature.  Such  objects,  with 
few  exceptions,  are  shabby-genteel  people. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MAKING  A  NIGHT  OF  IT. 

Damon  and  Pythias  were  undoubtedly  very  good  fellows 
in  their  way  :  the  former  for  his  extreme  readiness  to  put  in 
special  bail  for  a  friend :  and  the  latter  for  a  certain  trump- 
like  punctuality  in  turning  up  just  in  the  very  nick  of  time, 
scarcely  less  remarkable.  Many  points  in  their  character 
have,  however,  grown  obsolete.  Damons  are  rather  hard  to 
find,  in  these  days  of  imprisonment  for  debt  (except  the  sham 
ones,  and  they  cost  half-a-crown)  ;  and,  as  to  the  Pythiases, 
the  few  that  have  existed  in  these  degenerate  times,  have  had 
an  unfortunate  knack  of  making  themselves  scarce,  at  the 
very  moment  when  their  appearance  would  have  been  strictly 
classical.  If  the  actions  of  these  heroes,  however,  can  find 
no  parallel  in  modern  times,  their  friendship  can.  We  have 
Damon  and  Pythias  on  the  one  hand.  We  have  Potter  and 
Smithers  on  the  other  ;  and,  lest  the  two  last-mentioned  names 
should  never  have  reached  the  ears  of  our  unenlightened 
readers,  we  can  do  no  better  than  make  them  acquainted  with 
the  owners  thereof. 


MAKING  A  NIGHT  OF  IT. 


599 


Mr.  Thomas  Potter,  then,  was  a  clerk  in  the  city,  and  Mr. 

Robert  Smithers  was  a  ditto  in  the  same  ;  their  incomes  were 
limited,  but  their  friendship  was  unbounded.  They  lived  in 
the  same  street,  walked  into  town  every  morning  at  the  ^ame 
hour,  dined  at  the  same  slap-bang  every  day,  and  r«ve]-ed  in 
each  other's  company  every  night.  They  were  knii"  together 
by  the  closest  ties  of  intimacy  and  friendship,  or,  as  Mr. 
Thomas  Potter  touchingly  observed,  they  were  thick-and- 
thin  pals,  and  nothing  but  it."  There  was  a  spice  of  romance 
in  Mr.  Smithers's  disposition,  a  ray  of  poetry,  a  gieam  of  mis- 
ery, a  sort  of  consciousness  of  he  didn't  exactly  know  what, 
coming  across  him  he  didn't  precisely  know  why — which 
stood  out  in  fine  relief  against  the  off-hand,  dashing,  ama- 
teur-pickpocket-sort-of-manner,  which  distinguished  Mr.  Pot- 
ter in  an  eminent  degree. 

The  peculiarity  of  their  respective  dispositions,  extended 
itself  to  their  individual  costume.  Mr.  Smithers  generally 
appeared  in  public  in  a  surtout  and  shoes,  with  a  narrow 
black  neckerchief  and  a  brown  hat,  very  much  turned  up  at 
the  sides — peculiarities  which  Mr.  Potter  wholly  eschewed,  for 
it  Vv^as  his  ambition  to  do  something  to  the  celebrated  kiddy" 
or  stage-coach  way,  and  he  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  invest 
capital  in  the  purchase  of  a  rough  blue  coat  with  wooden  but- 
tons, made  upon  the  fireman's  principle,  in  which,  with  the 
addition  of  a  low-crowned,  flower-pot-saucer-shaped  hat,  he  had 
created  no  inconsiderable  sensation  at  the  Albion  in  Little 
Russell-street,  and  divers  other  places  of  public  and  fashion- 
able resort. 

Mr.  Potter  and  Mr.  Smithers  had  mutually  agreed  that,  on 
the  receipt  of  their  quarter's  salary,  they  would  jointly  and  in 
company  "  spend  the  evening  " — an  evident  misnomer — the 
spending  applying,  as  everybody  knows,  not  to  the  evening 
itself  but  to  all  the  money  the  individual  may  chance  to  be 
possessed  of,  on  the  occasion  to.  which  reference  is  made  ; 
and  they  had  likewise  agreed  that,  on  the  evening  aforesaid, 
they  would  make  a  night  of  it " — an  expressive  term,  imply- 
ing the  borrowing  of  several  hours  from  to-morrow  morning, 
adding  them  to  the  night  before,  and  manufacturing  a  com- 
pound night  of  the  whole. 

The  quarter-day  arrived  at  last — we  say  at  last,  because 
quarter-days  are  as  eccentric  as  comets  :  moving  wonderfully 
quick  when  you  have  good  deal  to  pay,  and  marvellously  slow 
when  you  have  a  Uttle  to  receive.  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  and 
26 


6oo 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


Mr.  Robert  Smithers  met  by  appointment  to  begin  the  even- 
ing with  a  dinner  ;  and  a  nice,  snug,  comfortable  dinner  they 
had,  consisting  of  a  Uttle  procession  of  four  chops  and  four 
kidneys,  following  each  other,  supported  on  either  side  by  a 
pot  of  the  real  draught  stout,  and  attended  by  divers  cushions 
of  bread,  and  wedges  of  cheese. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed,  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  ordered 
the  waiter  to  bring  in,  two  goes  of  his  best  Scotch  whiskey, 
with  warm  water  and  sugar,  and  a  couple  of  his  "  very  mild- 
est"  Havannas,  which  the  waiter  did.  Mr.  Thomas  Potter 
mixed  his  grog,  and  lighted  his  cigar  ;  Mr.  Robert  Smithers 
did  the  same ;  and  then,  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  jocularly  pro- 
posed  as  the  first  toast,  "  the  abolition  of  all  offices  whatever 
(not  sinecures,  but  counting-houses),  which  was  immediately 
drunk  by  Mr.  Robert  Smithers,  with  enthusiastic  applause. 
So  they  went  on,  talking  politics,  puffing  cigars,  and  sipping 
whiskey-and-water,  until  the  ^'goes" — most  appropriately  so 
called — were  both  gone,  which  Mr.  Robert  Smithers  perceiv- 
ing, immediately  ordered  in  two  more  goes  of  the  best  Scotch 
whiskey,  and  two  more  of  the  very  mildest  Havannas  ;  and 
the  goes  kept  coming  in,  and  the  mild  Havannas  kept  going 
out,  until,  what  with  the  drinking,  and  lighting,  and  puffing, 
and  the  stale  ashes  on  the  table,  and  the  tallow-grease  on  the 
cigars,  Mr.  Robert  Smithers  began  to  doubt  the  mildness  of 
the  Havannas,  and  to  feel  very  much  as  if  he  had  been 
sitting  in  a  hackney-coach  with  his  back  to  the  horses. 

As  to  Mr.  Thomas  Potter,  he  would  keep  laughing  out 
loud,  and  volunteering  inarticulate  declarations  that  he  was 
"all  right in  proof  of  which,  he  feebly  bespoke  the  evening 
paper  after  the  next  gentleman,  but  finding  it  a  matter  of  some 
difficulty  to  discover  any  news  in  its  columns,  or  to  ascertain 
distinctly  whether  it  had  any  columns  at  all,  walked  slowly 
out  to  look  for  the  moon,  and,  after  coming  back  quite  pale 
wdth  looking  up  at  the  sky  so  long,  and  attempting  to  express 
mirth  at  Mr.  Robert  Smithers  having  fallen  asleep,  by  various 
galvanic  chuckles,  laid  his  head  on  his  arm,  and  went  to  sleep, 
also.  When  he  awoke  again,  Mr.  Robert  Smithers  awoke 
too,  and  they  both  very  gravely  agreed  that  it  was  extremely 
unwise  to  eat  so  many  pickled  walnuts  with  the  chops,  as  it 
was  a  notorious  fact  that  they  always  made  people  queer  and 
sleepy;  indeed,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  whiskey  and  cigars, 
there  was  no  knowing  what  harm  they  mightn^t  have  done  'em. 
So  they  took  some  coffee,  and  after  paying  the  bill, — twelve 


MAKING  A  NIGHT  OF  IT. 


60 1 


and  twopence  the  dinner,  and  the  odd  tenpence  for  the  waiter 
. — thirteen  shillings  in  all — started  out  on  their  expedition  to 
manufacture  a  night. 

It  was  just  half-past  eight,  so  they  thought  they  couldn't 
do  better  than  go  at  half-price  to  the  slips  at  the  City  Theatre, 
which  they  did  accordingly.  Mr.  Robert  Smithers,  who  had 
become  extremely  poetical  after  the  settlement  of  the  bill, 
enlivening  the  walk  by  informing  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  in  con- 
fidence that  he  felt  an  inward  presentiment  of  approaching 
dissolution,  and  subsequently  embellishing  the  theatre,  by 
falling  asleep,  with  his  head  and  both  arms  gracefully  droop- 
ing over  the  front  of  the  boxes. 

Such  was  the  quiet  demeanor  of  the  unassuming  Smithers, 
and  such  were  the  happy  effects  of  Scotch  whiskey  and 
Havannas  on  that  interesting  person  !  But  Mr.  Thomas 
Potter,  whose  great  aim  it  was  to  be  considered  as  a  ^'  know- 
ing card,''  a  "  fast  goer,"  and  so  forth,  conducted  himself  in  a 
very  different  manner,  and  commenced  going  very  fast  indeed 
— rather  too  fast  at  last,  for  the  patience  of  the  audience  to 
keep  pace  with  him.  On  his  first  entry,  he  contented  himself 
by  earnestly  calling  upon  the  gentlemen  in  the  gallery  to 
flare  up,"  accompanying  the  demand  with  another  request, 
expressive  of  his  wish  that  they  would  instantaneously  *'form 
a  union,"  both  which  requisitions  were  responded  to,  in  the 
manner  most  in  vogue  on  such  occasions. 

Give  that  dog  a  bone  !  "  cried  one  gentleman  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves. 

"  Where  have  you  been  a  having  half  a  pint  of  intermediate 
beer  ?  "  cried  a  second.  Tailor  !  "  screamed  the  third.  Bar- 
ber's clerk  !"  shouted  a  fourth.  "Throw  him  o — ver  !  " 
roared  a  fifth  ;  while  numerous  voices  concurred  in  desiring 
Mr.  Thomas  Potter  to  "  go  home  to  his  mother !  "  All  these 
taunts  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  received  with  supreme  contempt, 
cocking  the  low-crowned  hat  a  little  more  on  one  side,  when- 
ever any  reference  was  made  to  his  personal  appearance,  and, 
standing  up  with  his  arms  a-kimbo,  expressing  defiance  melo 
dramatically. 

The  overture — to  which  these  various  sounds  had  been  an 
ad  libitum  accompaniment — concluded,  the  second  piece  be- 
gan, and  Mr.  Thomas  Potter,  emboldened  by  impunity,  pro 
ceeded  to  behave  in  a  most  unprecedented  and  outrageous 
manner.  First  of  all,  he  imitated  the  shake  of  the  principal 
female  singer ;  then,  groaned  at  the  blue  fire,  then,  affected 


602 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


to  be  frightened  into  convulsions  of  terror  at  the  appearance 
of  the  ghost  ;  and,  lastly,  not  only  made  a  running  commentary, 
in  an  audible  voice,  upon  the  dialogue  on  the  stage,  but 
actually  awoke  Mr.  Robert  Smithers,  who,  hearing  his  com- 
panion making  a  noise,  and  having  a  very  indistinct  notion 
where  he  was,  or  what  was  required  of  him,  immediately,  by 
way  of  imitating  a  good  example,  set  up  the  most  unearthly 
unremitting,  and  appalling  howling  that  ever  audience  h^rd. 
It  was  too  much.  "  Turn  them  out !  "  was  the  general  cry. 
A  noise,  as  of  shuffling  of  feet,  and  men  being  knocked  up 
with  violence  against  wainscoting,  was  heard  •  a  hurried  dia- 
logue of  Come  out  ?  "  —  "I  won't !  " — "  You  shall !  "  —  "I 
shan't !  " — Give  me  your  card.  Sir  ? '' — You're  a  scoundrel, 
Sir  !  "  and  so  forth,  succeeded.  A  round  of  applause  beto- 
kened the  approbation  of  the  audience,  and  Mr.  Robert 
Smithers  and  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  found  themselves  shot  with 
astonishing  swiftness  into  the  road,  without  having  had  the 
trouble  of  once  putting  foot  to  ground  during  the  whole  pro- 
gress of  their  rapid  descent. 

Mr.  Robert  Smithers,  being  constitutionally  one  of  the 
slow-goers,  and  having  had  quite  enough  of  fast-going,  in  the 
course  of  his  recent  expulsion,  to  last  until  the  quarter-day 
then  next  ensuing  at  the  very  least,  had  no  sooner  emerged 
with  his  companion  from  the  precincts  of  Milton-street,  than 
he  proceeded  to  indulge  in  circuitous  references  to  the  beauties 
of  sleep,  mingled  with  distant  allusions  to  the  propriety  of 
returning  to  Islington,  and  testing  the  influence  of  their 
patent  Bramahs  over  the  street-door  locks  to  which  they  re- 
spectively belonged.  Mr.  Thomas  Potter,  however,  was  valor- 
ous and  peremptory.  They  had  come  out  to  make  a  night  of 
it :  and  a  night  must  be  made.  So  Mr.  Robert  Smithers,  who 
was  three  parts  dull,  and  the  other  dismal,  despairingly 
assented  ;  and  they  went  into  a  wine-vault,  to  get  materials 
for  assisting  them  in  making  a  night ;  where  they  found  a 
good  many  young  ladies,  and  various  old  gentlemen  and  a 
plentiful  sprinkling  of  hackney-coachmen  and  cab-drivers,  all 
drinking  and  talking  together ;  and  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  and 
Mr.  Robert  Smithers  drank  small  glasses  of  brandy,  and  large 
glasses  of  soda,  until  they  began  to  have  a  very  confused  idea, 
either  of  things  in  general,  or  of  anything  in  particular  ;  and, 
when  they  had  done  treating  themselves  they  began  to  treat 
everybody  else  ;  and  the  rest  of  the  entertainment  was  a  con- 
fused mixture  of  heads  and  heels,  black  eyes  and  blue  uniforms, 
mud  and  gas-lights,  thick  doors,  and  stone  paving. 


THE  PRISONERS'  VAN:  603 

Then,  as  standard  novelists  expressively  inform  us — "  all 
was  a  blank  !  "  and  in  the  morning  the  blank  was  filled  up 
with  the  words  "  Station-house."  and  the  station-house  was 
filled  up  with  Mr.  Thomas  Potter,  Mr.  Robert  Smithers,  and 
the  major  part  of  their  wine-vault  companions  of  the  preceding 
night,  with  a  comparatively  small  portion  of  clothing  of  any 
kind.  And  it  was  disclosed  at  the  Police-office,  to  the  indigna- 
tion of  the  Bench,  and  the  astonishment  of  the  spectators, 
how  one  Robert  Smithers,  aided  and  abetted  bv  one  Thomas 
Potter,  had  knocked  down  and  beaten,  in  divers  streets,  at 
different  times,  five  men,  four  boys,  and  three  women ;  how 
the  said  Thomas  Potter  had  feloniously  obtained  possession 
of  five  door-knockers,  two  bell-handles,  and  a  boni^et  ;  how 
Robert  Smithers,  his  friend,  had  sworn,  at  least  forty  pounds' 
worth  of  oaths,  at  the  rate  of  five  shillings  a  piece  ;  terrified 
whole  streets  full  of  Her  Majesty's  subjects  with  awful  shrieks 
and  alarms  of  fire  ;  destroyed  the  uniforms  of  five  policemen  ; 
and  committed  various  other  atrocities,  too  numerous  to 
recapitulate.  And  the  magistrate,  after  an  appropriate  repri- 
mand, fined  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  and  Mr.  Robert  Smithers  five 
shillings  each,  for  being,  what  the  law  vulgarly  terms,  drunk  ; 
and  thirty-four  pounds  for  seventeen  assaults  at  forty  shillings 
a-head,  with  liberty  to  speak  to  the  prosecutors. 

The  prosecutors  were  spoken  to,  and  Messrs.  Potter  and 
Smithers  lived  on  credit,  for  a  quarter,  as  best  they  might ; 
and,  although  the  prosecutors  expressed  their  readiness  to  be 
assaulted  twice  a  week,  on  the  same  terms,  they  have  never 
since  been  detected  in    making  a  night  of  it." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    prisoners'  VAN. 

We  w^ere  passing  the  corner  of  Bow-street,  on  our  return 
from  a  lounging  excursion  the  other  afternoon,  when  a  crowd, 
assembled  round  the  door  of  the  Police  Office,  attracted  our 
attention.  We  turned  up  the  street  accordingly.  There  were 
thirty  or  forty  people,  standing  on  the  pavement  and  half 
across  the  road  ;  and  a  few  stragglers  were  patiently  stationed 


6o4 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way — all  evidently  waiting  in  ex< 
pectation  of  some  arrival.  We  waited  too,  a  few  minutes,  but 
nothing  occurred  ;  so,  we  turned  round  to  an  unshorn,  sallow- 
looking  cobbler,  who  was  standing  next  us  with  his  hands 
under  the  bib  of  his  apron,  and  put  the  usual  question  of 
What's  the  matter  ?  "  The  cobbler  eyed  us  from  head  to 
foot,  with  superlative  contempt,  and  laconically  replied 
^'  Nuffin." 

Now,  we  were  perfectly  aware  that  if  two  men  stop  in  the 
street  to  look  at  any  given  object,  or  even  to  gaze  in  the  air, 
two  hundred  men  will  be  assembled  in  no  time  ;  but,  as  we 
knew  very  well  <hat  no  crowd  of  people  could  by  possibility 
remain  i^n  a  street  for  five  minutes  without  getting  up  a  little 
amusement  among  themselves,  unless  they  had  some  absorb- 
ing object  in  view,  the  natural  inquiry  next  in  order  was, 
What  are  all  these  people  waiting  here  for  ?  " — "  Her 
Majesty's  carriage,"  replied  the  cobbler.  This  was  still  more 
extraordinary.  We  could  not  imagine  what  earthly  business 
Her  Majesty's  carriage  could  have  at  the  Public  Office,  Bow- 
street.  We  were  beginning  to  ruminate  on  the  possible  causes 
of  such  an  uncommon  appearance,  when  a  general  exclamation 
from  all  the  boys  in  the  crowd  of  Here's  the  wan  1  "  caused 
us  to  raise  our  heads,  and  look  up  the  street. 

The  covered  vehicle,  in  which  prisoners  are  conveyed  from 
the  police  offices  to  the  different  prisons,  was  coming  along 
at  full  speed.  It  then  occurred  to  us,  for  the  first  time,  that 
Her  Majesty's  carriage  was  merely  another  name  for  the  pri- 
soners' van,  conferred  upon  it,  not  only  by  reason  of  the 
superior  gentility  of  the  term,  but  because  the  aforesaid  van 
is  maintained  at  Her  Majesty's  expenses :  having  been  origi- 
nally started  for  the  exclusive  accommodation  of  ladies  and 
gentlemen  under  the  necessity  of  visiting  the  various  houses 
of  call  known  by  the  general  denomination  of  "  Majesty's 
Gaols." 

The  van  drew  up  at  the  office  door,  and  the  people 
thronged  round  the  steps,  just  leaving  a  little  alley  for  the 
prisoners  to  pass  through.  Our  friend  the  cobbler,  and  the 
other  stragglers,  crossed  over,  and  we  followed  their  example. 
The  driver,  and  another  man  who  had  been  seated  by  his  side 
in  front  of  the  vehicle,  dismounted,  and  were  admitted  into 
the  office.  The  office  door  was  closed  after  them,  and  the 
crowd  were  on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation. 

After  a  few  minutes'  delay,  the  door  again  opened,  and 


THE  PRISONERS'  VAN,  605 

the  two  first  prisoners  appeared.  They  were  a  couple  of  girls, 
of  whom  the  elder  could  not  be  more  than  sixteen,  and  the 
younger  of  whom  had  certainly  ngt  attained  her  fourteenth 
year.  That  they  were  sisters,  was  evident,  from  the  resem* 
blance  which  still  subsisted  between  them,  though  two  addi- 
tional years  of  depravity  had  fixed  their  brand  upon  the  elder 
girl's  features,  as  legibly  as  if  a  red-hot  iron  had  seared  them. 
They  were  both  gaudily  dressed,  the  younger  one  especially  \ 
and,  although  there  was  a  strong  similarity  between  them  in 
both  respects,  which  was  rendered  the  more  obvious  by  their 
being  handcuffed  together,  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  a 
greater  contrast  than  the  demeanor  of  the  two  presented. 
The  younger  girl  was  weeping  bitterly — not  for  display,  or  in 
the  hope  of  producing  effect,  but  for  very  shame ;  her  face 
was  buried  in  her  handkerchief ;  and  her  whole  manner  was 
but  too  expressive  of  bitter  and  unavailing  sorrow. 

"  How  long  are  you  for,  Emily  ? screamed  a  red-faced 
woman  in  the  crowd.  Six  weeks  and  labor,"  replied  the 
elder  girl  with  a  flaunting  laugh  ;  and  that's  better  than  the 
stone  jug  anyhow  ;  the  mill's  a  deal  better  than  the  Sessions, 
and  here's  Bella  a-going  too  for  the  first  time.  Hold  up  your 
head,  you  chicken,"  she  continued,  boisterously  tearing  the 
other  girl's  handkerchief  away ;  "  Hold  up  your  head  and 
show  'em  your  face.  I  an't  jealous,  but  I'm  blessed  if  I  an't 
game!" — ^'That's  right,  old  gal,"  exclaimed  a  man  in  a 
paper  cap,  who,  in  common  with  the  greater  part  of  the 
crowd,  had  been  inexpressibly  delighted  with  this  little  inci- 
dent.— "  Right  !  "  replied  the  girl  ;  ah,  to  be  sure  ;  what's 
the  odds,  eh?" — "Come!  In  with  you,"  interrupted  the 
driver.  "  Don't  you  be  in  a  hurry,  coachman,"  replied  the 
girl,  "  and  recollect  I  want  to  be  set  down  in  Cold  Bath 
Fields— large  house  with  a  high  garden-wall  in  front ;  you 
can't  mistake  it.  Hallo.  Bella,  where  are  you  going  to — • 
you'll  pull  my  precious  arm  off  "  This  was  addressed  to 
the  younger  girl,  who,  in  her  anxiety  to  hide  herself  in  the 
caravan,  had  ascended  the  steps  first,  and  forgotten  the  strain 
upon  the  handcuff.  ''Come  down,  and  let's  show  you  the 
way."  And  after  jerking  the  miserable  girl  down  with  a  force 
which  made  her  stagger  on  the  pavement,  she  got  into  the 
vehicle,  and  was  followed  by  her  wretched  companion. 

These  two  girls  had  been  thrown  upon  London  streets, 
their  vices  and  debauchery,  by  a  sordid  and  rapacious  mother. 
What  the  younger  girl  was,  then,  the  elder  had  been  once  ; 


6o6 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


and  what  the  elder  then  was,  the  younger  must  soon  become. 
A  melancholy  prospect,  but  how  surely  to  be  realized ;  a 
tragic  drama,  but  how  oftQn  acted  !  Turn  to  the  prisons  and 
police  offices  of  London  —  nay,  look  into  the  very  streets 
themselves.  These  things  pass  before  our  eyes,  day  after 
day,  and  hour  after  hour — they  have  become  such  matters  of 
course,  that  they  are  utterly  disregarded.  The  progress  of 
these  girls  in  crime  will  be  as  rapid  as  the  flight  of  a  pesti- 
lence, resembling  it  too  in  its  baneful  influence  and  wide- 
spreading  infection.  Step  by  step,  how  many  wretched 
females,  within  the  sphere  of  every  man's  observation,  have 
become  involved  in  a  career  of  vice,  frightful  to  contemplate  ; 
hopeless  at  its  commencement,  loathsome  and  repulsive  in  its 
course;  friendless,  forlorn,  and  unpitied,  at  its  miserable 
conclusion  ! 

There  were  other  prisoners — boys  of  ten,  as  hardened  in 
vice  as  men  of  fifty — a  houseless  vagrant,  going  joyfully  to 
prison  as  a  place  of  food  and  shelter,  handcuffed  to  a  man 
whose  prospects  were  ruined,  character  lost,  and  family  ren- 
dered destitute,  by  his  first  offence.  Our  curiosity,  however, 
was  satisfied.  The  first  group  had  left  an  impression  on  our 
mind  we  would  gladly  have  avoided,  and  would  willingly  have 
effaced. 

The  crowd  dispersed ;  the  vehicle  rolled  away  with  its 
load  of  guilt  and  misfortune  •  and  we  saw  no  more  of  the 
Prisoners'  Van. 


THE  BOARDING-'HOUSE, 


6oy 


TALES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  BOARDING-HOUSE,     CHAPTER  I, 

Mrs.  Tibbs  was,  beyond  all  dispute,  the  most  tidy,  fidgety, 
thrifty  little  personage,  that  ever  inhaled  the  smoke  of  London ; 
and  the  house  of  Mrs.  Tibbs  was,  decidedly,  the  neatest  in  all 
Great  Coram-street.  The  area  and  the  area-steps,  and  the 
street-door  and  the  street-door  steps,  and  the  brass  handle 
\  and  the  door-plate,  and  the  knocker,  and  the  fanlight,  were 
f  all  as  clean  and  bright,  as  indefatigable  whitewashing,  and 
hearth-stoning,  and  scrubbing  and  rubbing,  could  make  them. 
The  wonder  was,  that  the  brass  door-plate,  with  the  interesting 
inscription  "  Mrs.  Tibbs,''  had  never  caught  fire  from  constant 
friction,  so  perseveringly  was  it  polished.  There  were  meat- 
safe-looking  blinds  in  the  parlor  windows,  blue  and  gold  cur- 
tains in  the  drawing-room,  and  spring-roller  blinds,  as  Mrs. 
Tibbs  was  wont  in  the  pride  of  her  heart  to  boast,  all  the 
way  up."  The  bell-lamp  in  the  passage  looked  as  clear  as  a 
soap-bubble ;  you  could  see  yourself  in  all  the  tables,  and 
French-polish  yourself  on  any  one  of  the  chairs.  The  banis- 
ters were  bees'-waxed  ;  and  the  very  stair  wires  made  your  eyes 
wink,  they  were  so  glittering. 

Mrs.  Tibbs  was  somewhat  short  of  stature,  and  Mr.  Tibbs 
was  by  no  means  a  large  man.  He  had,  moreover,  very  short 
legs,  but  by  way  of  indemnification,  his  face  was  peculiarly 
long.  He  was  to  his  wife  what  the  o  is  in  90 — he  was  of  some 
importance  with  her  —  he  was  nothing  without  her.  Mrs. 
Tibbs  was  always  talking,  Mr.  Tibbs  rarely  spoke  ;  but,  if  it 
were  at  any  time  possible  to  put  in  a  word,  when  he  should 
have  said  nothing  at  all,  he  had  that  talent.  Mrs.  Tibbs  de- 
tested long  stories,  and  Mr.  Tibbs  had  one,  the  conclusion  of 
which  had  never  been  heard  by  his  most  intimate  friends. 
It  always  began,  "  I  recollect  when  I  was  in  the  volunteer 
corps  in  eighteen  hundred  and  six," — but,  as  he  spoke  very 


6o8 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


slowly  and  softly,  and  his  better  half  very  quickly  and  loudly, 
he  rarely  got  beyond  the  introductory  sentence.  He  was  a 
melancholy  specimen  of  the  story-teller.  He  was  the  wander- 
ing Jew  of  Joe  Millerism. 

Mr.  Tibbs  enjoyed  a  small  independence  from  the  pension 
list — about  £\2)  15s.  lod.  a  year.  His  father,  mother,  ana 
five  interesting  scions  from  the  same  stock,  drew  a  like  sum 
from  the  revenue  of  a  grateful  country,  though  for  what  par- 
ticular service  was  never  known.  But,  as  this  said  indepen- 
dence was  not  quite  sufficient  to  furnish  two  people  with  all 
the  luxuries  of  this  life,  it  had  occurred  to  the  busy  little 
spouse  of  Tibbs,  that  the  best  thing  she  could  do  with  a  legacy 
of  ^700,  would  be  to  take  and  furnish  a  tolerable  house — some- 
where in  that  partially-explored  tract  of  country  which  lies 
between  the  British  Museum  and  a  remote  village  called 
Somers'-town — for  the  reception  of  boarders.  Great  Coram- 
street  was  the  spot  pitched  upon.  The  house  had  been  fur- 
nished accordingly ;  two  female  servants  and  a  boy  engaged ; 
and  an  advertisement  inserted  in  the  morning  papers,  inform- 
ing the  public  that  Six  individuals  would  meet  with  all  the 
comforts  of  a  cheerful  musical  home  in  a  select  private  family, 
residing  within  ten  minutes^  walk  of  " — everywhere.  Answers 
out  of  number  were  received,  with  all  sorts  of  initials ;  all  the 
letters  of  the  alphabet  seemed  to  be  seized  with  a ^udden 
wish  to  go  out  boarding  and  lodging  ;  voluminous  was  the  cor- 
respondence between  Mrs.  Tibbs  and  the  applicants;  and 
most  profound  was  the  secresy  observed.  "  E."  didn't  like 
this  ;  I."  couldn't  think  of  putting  up  with  that;  "  I.  O.  U." 
didn't  think  the  terms  would  suit  him ;  and  "  G.  R."  had 
never  slept  in  a  French  bed.  The  result,  however,  was,  that 
three  gentlemen  became  inmates  of  Mrs.  Tibbs's  house,  on 
terms  which  were  "  agreeable  to  all  parties."  In  went  the  ad- 
vertisement again,  and  a  lady  with  her  two  daughters,  pro- 
posed to  increase — not  their  families,  but  Mrs.  Tibbs's. 

"  Charming  woman,  that  Mrs.  Maplesone ! "  said  Mrs. 
Tibbs,  as  she  and  her  spouse  were  sitting  by  the  fire  after 
breakfast ;  the  gentlemen  having  gone  out  on  their  several 
avocations.  "  Charming  woman,  indeed ! "  repeated  little 
Mrs.  Tibbs,  more  by  way  of  soliloquy  than  anything  else,  for 
she  never  thought  of  consulting  her  husband.  "  And  the  two 
daughters  are  delightful.  We  must  have  some  fish  to-day ; 
they'll  join  us  at  dinner  for  the  first  time." 

Mr.  Tibbs  placed  the  poker  at  right  angles  with  the  fire 


THE  BOARDING-HOUSE. 


609 


shovel,  and  essayed  to  speak,  but  recollected  he  had  nothing 
to  say. 

"  The  young  ladies,''  continued  Mrs.  T.,  "  have  kindly 
volunteered  to  bring  their  own  piano/' 

Tibbs  thought  of  the  volunteer  story,  but  did  not  venture  it. 
A  bright  thought  struck  him — 

"  It's  very  likely — "  said  he. 

"  Pray  don't  lean  your  head  against  the  paper,"  interrupted 
Mrs.  Tibbs  ;  "  and  don't  put  your  feet  on  the  steel  fender ; 
that's  worse." 

Tibbs  took  his  head  from  the  paper  and  feet  from  the 
fender  and  proceeded.  "It's  very  likely  one  of  the  young 
ladies  may  set  her  cap  at  young  Mr.  Simpson,  and  you  know 
a  marriage  " 

"  A  what !  "  shrieked  Mrs.  Tibbs.  Tibbs  modestly  repeated 
his  former  suggestion. 

"  I  beg  you  won't  mention  such  a  thing,"  said  Mrs.  T.  "A 
marriage,  indeed  ! — to  rob  me  of  my  boarders — no,  not  for  the 
world." 

Tibbs  thought  in  his  own  mind  that  the  event  was  by  no 
means  unlikely,  but,  as  he  never  argued  with  his  wife,  he  put 
a  stop  to  the  dialogue,  by  observing  it  was  "  time  to  go  to 
business."  He  always  went  out  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  returned  at  five  in  the  afternoon,  with  an  exceedingly 
dirty  face,  and  smelling  mouldy.  Nobody  knew  what  he  was, 
or  where  he  went ;  but  Mrs.  Tibbs  used  to  say  with  an  air  of 
great  importance,  that  he  was  engaged  in  the  city. 

The  Miss  Maplesones  and  their  accomplished  parent 
arrived  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon  in  a  hackney-coach,  and 
accompanied  by  a  most  astonishing  number  of  packages. 
Trunks,  bonnet-boxes,  muff-boxes  and  parasols,  guitar-cases, 
and  parcels  of  all  imaginable  shapes,  done  up  in  brown  paper 
and  fastened  with  pins,  filled  the  passage.  Then  there  was 
such  a  running  up  and  down  with  the  luggage,  such  scamper- 
ing for  warm  water  for  the  ladies  to  wash  in,  and  such  a  bustle 
and  confusion,  and  heating  of  servants,  and  curling-irons,  as 
had  never  been  known  in  Great  Coram-street  before.  Little 
Mrs.  Tibbs  was  quite  in  her  element,  bustling  about,  talking 
incessantly,  and  distributhig  towels  and  soap,  like  a  head 
nurse  in  a  hospital.  The, house  was  not  restored  to  its  usual 
state  of  quiet  repose,  until  the  ladies  were  safely  shut  up  in 
their  respective  bedrooms,  engaged  in  the  important  occupa' 
tion  of  dressing  for  dinner. 


6i o  SKETCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 

"  Are  these  gals  'andsome  ? inquired  Mr.  Simpson  of  Mr, 
Septimus  Hicks,  another  of  the  boarders,  as  they  were  amus- 
ing themselves  in  the  drawing-room,  before  dinner,  by  lolling 
on  sofas,  and  contemplating  their  pumps. 

"  Don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks,  who  was  a  tall- 
ish,  white-faced  young  man,  with  spectacles,  and  a  black  ribbon 
round  his  neck  instead  of  a  neckerchief — a  most  interesting 
person ;  a  poetical  walker  of  the  hospitals,  and  a  very  tal- 
ented young  man."  He  was  fond  of  '*  lugging  "  into  conver- 
sation all  sorts  of  quotations  from  Don  Juan,  without  fettering 
himself  by  the  propriety  of  their  application ;  in  which  par- 
ticular he  was  remarkably  independent.  The  other,  Mr. 
Simpson,  was  one  of  those  young  men,  who  are  in  society 
what  walking  gentlemen  are  on  the  stage,  only  infinitely  worse 
skilled  in  his  vocation  than  the  most  indifferent  artist.  He 
was  as  empty-headed  as  the  great  bell  of  St.  Paul's  ;  always 
dressed  according  to  the  caricatures  published  in  the  monthly 
fashions ;  and  spelt  Character  with  a  K. 

"  I  saw  a  devilish  number  of  parcels  in  the  passage  when 
I  came  home,"  simpered  Mr.  Simpson. 

"  Materials  for  the  toilet,  no  doubt,"  rejoined  the  Don 
Juan  reader. 

 Much  linen,  lace,  and  several  pair 

Of  stockings,  slippers,  b'rushes,  combs,  complete. 

With  other  articles  of  ladies'  fair, 

To  keep  them  beautiful,  or  leave  them  neat."  - 

"  Is  that  from  Milton  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Simpson. 

"  No — from  Byron,"  returned  Mr.  Hicks,  with  a  look  of 
contempt.  He  was  quite  sure  of  his  author,  iDCcause  he  had 
never  read  any  other.  Hush !  Here  come  the  gals,"  and 
they  both  commenced  talking  in  a  very  loud  key. 

"  Mrs.  Maplesone  and  the  Miss  Maplesones,  Mr.  Hicks. 
Mr.  Hicks — Mrs.  Maplesone  and  the  Miss  Maplesones,"  said 
Mrs.  Tibbs,  with  a  very  red  face,  for  she  had  been  superin- 
tending the  cooking  operations  below  stairs,  and  looked  like 
a  wax  doll  on  a  sunny  day.  "  Mr.  Simpson,  I  beg  your  par- 
don— Mr.  Simpson — Mrs.  Maplesone  and  the  Miss  Maple- 
sones " — and  vice  versa.  The  gentlemen  immediately  began 
to  slide  about  with  much  politeness,  and  to  look  as  if  they 
wished  their  arms  had  been  legs,  so  little  did  they  know  what 
to  do  with  them.  The  ladies  smiled,  curtseyed,  and  glided 
into  chairs,  and  dived  for  dropped  pocket-handkerchiefs  :  the 
gentlemen  leant  against  two  of  the  curtain-pegs  ;  Mrs.  Tibbs 
went  through  an  admirable  bit  of  serious  pantomime  with  a 


THE  BOARDING-HOUSE. 


6ii 


servant  who  had  come  up  to  ask  some  question  about  the 
fish-sauce ;  and  then  the  two  young  ladies  looked  at  each 
other  ;  and  everybody  else  appeared  to  discover  something 
very  attractive  in  the  pattern  of  the  fender. 

"Julia  my  love/'  said  Mrs.  Maplesone  to  her  youngest 
daughter,  in  a  tone  loud  enough  for  the  remainder  of  the  com- 
pany to  hear — "Julia." 

"  Yes,  Ma.'^ 

"  Don't  stoop." — This  was  said  for  the  purpose  of  direct- 
ing general  attention  to  Miss  Julia's  figure,  which  was  unde- 
niable. Everybody  looked  at  her,  accordingly,  and  there  was 
another  pause. 

"  We  had  the  most  uncivil  hackney-coachman  to-day,  you 
can  imagine,"  said  Mrs.  Maplesone  to  Mrs.  Tibbs,  in  a  confi- 
dential tone. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  replied  the  hostess,  with  an  air  of  great  com- 
miseration. She  couldn't  say  more,  for  the  servant  again  ap- 
peared at  the  door,  and  commenced  telegraphing  most  earn- 
estly to  her  "  Missis." 

"  I  think  hackney-coachmen  generally  are  uncivil,"  said 
Mr.»  Hicks  in  his  most  insinuating  tone. 

•  "  Positively  I  think  they  are,"  replied  Mrs.  Maplesone,  as 
if  the  idea  had  never  struck  her  before. 

"And  cabmen,  too,"  said  Mr.  Simpson.  This  remark  was 
a  failure,  for  no  one  intimated,  by  word  or  sign,  the  slightest 
knowledge  of  the  manners  and  customs  of  cabmen. 

"  Robinson,  what  do  you  want  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tibbs  to  the 
servant,  who,  by  way  of  making  her  presence  known  to  her 
mistress,  had  been  giving  sundry  hems  and  sniffs  outside  the 
door  during  the  preceding  five  minutes. 

"  Please,  ma'am,  master  wants  his  clean  things,"  replied 
the  servant,  taken  ofT  her  guard.  The  two  young  men  turned 
their  faces  to  the  window,  and  "went  off"  like  a  couple  of 
bottles  of  ginger-beer  ;  the  ladies  put  their  handkerchiefs  to 
their  mouths ;  and  little  Mrs.  Tibbs  bustled  out  of  the  room 
to  give  Tibbs  his  clean  linen, — and  the  servant  warning. 

Mr.  Calton,  the  remaining  boarder,  shortly  afterwards 
made  his  appearance,  and  proved  a  surprising  promoter  of 
the  conversation.  Mr.  Calton  was  a  superannuated  beau — an 
old  boy.  He  used  to  -say  of  himself  that  although  his  fea- 
tures were  not  regularly  handsome,  they  were  striking.  They 
certainly  were.  It  was  impossible  to  look  at  his  face  without 
being  reminded  of  a  chubby  street-door  knocker,  half-lion 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


half-monkey ;  and  the  comparison  might  be  extended  to  his 
whole  character  and  conversation.  He  had  stood  still,  while 
everything  else  had  been  moving.  He  never  originated  a 
conversation,  or  started  an  idea ;  but  if  any  commonplace 
topic  were  broached,  or,  to  pursue  the  comparison,  if  anybody 
lifted  him  up^  he  would  hammer  away  with  surprising  rapidity. 
He  had  the  tic-doloreux  occasionally,  and  then  he  might  be 
said  to  be  muffled,  because  he  did  not  make  quite  as  much 
noise  as  at  other  times,  w^hen  he  would  go  on  prosing,  rat-tat- 
tat  the  same  thing  over  and  over  again.  He  had  never  been 
married  ;  but  he  was  still  on  the  look-out  for  a  wife  with 
money.  He  had  a  life  interest  worth  about  300/.  a  year — he 
w^as  exceedingly  vain,  and  inordinately  selfish.  He  had  ac- 
quired the  reputation  of  being  the  very  pink  of  politeness,  and 
he  walked  round  the  park,  and  up  Regent- street,  every  day. 

This  respectable  personage  had  made  up  his  mind  to  ren- 
der himself  exceedingly  agreeable  to  Mrs.  Maplesone — indeed, 
the  desire  of  being  as  amiable  as  possible  extended  itself  to 
the  whole  party ;  Mrs.  Tibbs  having  considered  it  an  admira- 
ble little  bit  of  management  to  represent  to  the  gentlemen 
that  she  had  soine  reason  to  believe  the  ladies  had  fortunes, 
and  to  hint  to  the  ladies,  that  all  the  gentlemen  were  eligi- 
ble." A  little  flirtation,  she  thought,  might  keep  her  house 
full,  without  leading  to  any  other  result. 

Mrs.  Maplesone  was  an  enterprising  widow  of  about  fifty ; 
shrewd,  scheming,  and  good-looking.  She  was  amiably  anx- 
ious on  behalf  of  her  daughters  ;  in  proof  whereof  she  used 
to  remark,  that  she  would  have  no  objection  to  marry  again, 
if  it  would  benefit  her  dear  girls — she  could  have  no  other 
motive.  The  dear  girls  "  themselves  were  not  at  all  insen- 
sible to  the  merits  of  "  a  good  establishment."  One  of  them 
was  twenty-five  ;  the  other,  three  years  younger.  They  had  been 
atdifferent  watering-places,  for  four  seasons  ;  they  had  gambled 
at  libraries,  read  books  in  balconies,  sold  at  fancy  fairs,  danced 
at  assemblies,  talked  sentiment — in  short,  they  had  done  al] 
that  industrious  girls  could  do — but,  as  yet,  to  naj3urpose. 

"  What  a  magnificent  dresser  Mr.  Simpson  is  !  "  whispered 
Matilda  Maplesone  to  her  sister  Julia. 

"  Splendid  !  "  returned  the  youngest.  The  magnificent  in- 
dividual alluded  to  wore  a  maroon-colored  dress-coat,  with  a 
velvet  collar  and  cuffs  of  the  same  tint — very  like  that  which 
usually  invests  the  form  of  the  distinguished  unknown  who 
condescends  to  play  the  swell  "  in  the  pantomime  at  "  Rich' 
ardson's  Show." 


THE  BOARDING-HOUSE. 


6t3 


*•  What  whiskers  1    said  Miss  JuHa. 

"  Charming  !  responded  her  sister  ;  and  what  hair  !  " 
His  hair  was  Uke  a  wig,  and  distinguished  by  that  insinuating 
wave  which  graces  the  shining  locks  of  those  chef-d' ceiivres  of 
art  surmounting  the  waxen  images  in  Bartellot's  window  in 
Regent-street  ;  his  whiskers  meeting  beneath  his  chin,  seemed 
strings  wherewith  to  tie  it  on,  ere  science  had  rendered  them 
unnecessary  by  her  patent  invisible  springs. 

"Dinner's  on  the  table,  ma'am,  if  you  please,"  said  the 
boy,  who  now  appeared  for  the  first  time,  in  a  revived  black 
coat  of  his  master's. 

Oh  !  Mr.  Calton,  will  you  lead  Mrs.  Maplesone  ?  — 
Thank  you."  Mr.  Simpson  offered  his  arm  to  Miss  Julia  ; 
Mr.  Septimus  Hicks  escorted  the  lovely  Matilda  ;  and  the 
procession  proceeded  to  the  dining-room.  Mr.  Tibbs  was  in- 
troduced, and  Mr.  Tibbs  bobbed  up  and  down  to  the  three 
ladies  like  a  figure  in  a  Dutch  clock,  with  a  powerful  spring 
in  the  middle  of  his  body,  and  then  j^ived  rapidly  into  his 
seat  at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  delighted  to  screen  himself 
behind  a  soup-tureen,  which  he  could  just  see  over,  and  that 
was  all.  The  boarders  were  seated,  a  lady  and  gentleman 
alternately,  like  the  layers  of  bread  and  meat  in  a  plate  oi 
sandwiches  ;  and  then  Mrs.  Tibbs  directed  James  to  take  off 
the  covers.  Salmon,  lobster-sauce,  giblet-soup,  and  the  usual 
accompaniments  were  dis-covexed  :  potatoes  like  petrifactions, 
and  bits  of  toasted  bread,  the  shape  and  size  of  blank  dice. 

"  Soup  for  Mrs.  Maplesone,  my  dear,"  said  the  bustling 
Mrs.  Tibbs.  She  always  called  her  husband  "  my  dear " 
before  company.  Tibbs,  who  had  been  eating  his  bread,  and 
calculating  how  lon^'  it  would  be  before  he  should  get  any 
fish,  helped  the  soup  in  a  hurry,  made  a  small  island  on  the 
tablecloth,  and  put  his  glass  upon  it,  to  hide  it  from  his  wife. 

"  Miss  Julia,  shall  I  assist  you  to  some  fish  ?  " 

"If  you  please — very  little — oh  !  plenty,  thank  you  "  (a 
bit  about  the  size  of  a  walnut  put  upon  the  plate). 

"Julia  is  a  very  little  eater,"  said  Mrs.  Maplesone  to  Mr. 
Calton. 

The  knocker  gave  a  single  rap.  He  was  busy  eating  the 
fish  with  his  eyes  ;  so  he  only  ejaculated,  "  Ah  !  " 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tibbs  to  her  spouse  after  everyone 
else  had  been  helped,  "  What  do  you  take  ?  "  The  inquiry 
was  accompanied  with  a  look  intimating  that  he  mustn't  say 
fish,  because  there  was  not  much  left.    Tibbs  thought  the 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


frown  referred  to  the  island  on  the  tableclpth ;  he  therefore 
coolly  replied,    Why— I'll  take  a  little— fish,  I  think/' 

"  Did  you  say  fish,  my  dear  ?  "  (another  frown.) 

"Yes,  dear,"  replied  the  villain,  with  an  expression  of 
acute  hunger  depicted  in  his  countenance.  The  tears  almost 
started  to  Mrs.  Tibbs's  eyes,  as  she  helped  her  "  wretch  of  a 
husband,"  as  she  inwardly  called  him,  to  the  last  eatable  bit 
of  salmon  on  the  dish. 

"  James,  take  this  to  your  master,  and  take  away  your 
master's  knife."  This  was  deliberate  revenge,  as  Tibbs 
never  could  eat  fish  without  one.  He  was,  however,  con- 
strained to  chase  small  particles  of  salmon  round  and  round 
his  plate  with  a  piece  of  bread  and  a  fork,  the  number  of 
successful  attempts  being  about  one  in  seventeen. 

"Take  aw^ay,  James,"  said  Mrs,  Tibbs,  as  Tibbs  swal- 
lowed the  fourth  mouthful — and  away  went  the  plates  like 
lightning. 

"  ril  take  a  bit  of  bread,  James,"  said  the  poor  "  master 
of  the  house,"  more  hungry  than  ever. 

"  Never  mind  your  master  now,  James,"  said  Mrs.  Tibbs, 
"  see  about  the  meat."  This  was  conveyed  in  the  tone  in 
which  ladies  usually  give  admonitions  to  servants  in  company, 
that  is  to  say,  a  low  one  ;  but  which,  like  a  stage  whisper, 
from  its  peculiar  emphasis,  is  most  distinctly  heard  by  every- 
body present. 

A  pause  ensued,  before  the  table  was  replenished — a  sort 
of  parenthesis  in  which  Mr.  Simpson,  Mr.  Calton,  and  Mr. 
Hicks,  produced  respectively  a  bottle  of  sauterne,  bucellas, 
and  sherry,  and  took  wine  with  everybody — except  Tibbs. 
No  one  ever  thought  of  him. 

Between  the  fish  and  an  intimated  sirloin,  there  was  a 
prolonged  interval. 

Here  was  an  opportunity  for  Mr.  Hicks.  He  could  not 
resist  the  singularly  appropriate  quotation — 

"  But  beef  is  rare  within  these  oxless  isles  ; 
Goat's  flesh  there  is,  no  doubt,  and  kid  and  mutton, 
And  when  a  lioHday  upon  them  smiles, 
A  joint  upon  their  barbarous  spits  they  put  on.'' 

"  Very  ungentlemanly  behavior,"  thought  little  Mrs.  Tibbs, 
"  to  talk  in  that  way." 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Calton,  filling  his  glass.  "Tom  Moore 
is  my  poet." 

''And  mine,"  said  Mrs.  Maplesone. 


THE  BOARDING-HOUSE. 


"  Aiv4  mine,"  said  Miss  Julia. 

"  And  mine/'  added  Mr.  Simpson. 

"Look  at  his  compositions,"  resmiied  the  knocker. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Simpson,  with  confidence. 

"  Look  at  Don  Juan,"  replied  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks. 

"Julia's  letter,"  suggested  Miss  Matilda. 

"Can  anything  be  grander  than  the  Fire  Worshippers  ?  ^ 
inquired  Miss  Julia. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Simpson. 

"  Or  Paradise  and  the  Peri,"  said  the  old  beau, 

"  Yes  ;  or  Paradise  and  the  Peer,"  repeated  Simpson, 
who  thought  he  was  getting  through  it  capitall}^ 

"It's  all  very  well,"  replied  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks,  who,  as 
we  have  before  hmted,  never  had  read  anything  but  Don 
Juan.  "  Where  will  you  find  anything  finer  than  the  de- 
scription of  the  siege,  at  the  commencement  of  the  seventh 
canto  ?  " 

"  Talking  of  a  siege,"  said  Tibbs,  with  a  mouthful  of 
bread — "  when  I  was  in  the  volunteer  corps,  in  eighteen  hun- 
dred and  six,  our  commanding  officer  was  Sir  Charles  Ram- 
part ;  and  one  day,  when  we  were  exercising  on  the  ground 
on  which  the  London  University  now  stands,  he  says,  says 
he.,  Tibbs  (calling  me  from  the  ranks)  Tibbs — " 

"  Tell  your  master,  James,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Tibbs,  in  an 
awfully  distinct  tone,  "tell  your  master  if  he  won't  cdiTvo.  those 
fowls,  to  send  them  to  me."  The  discomfited  volunteer 
instantly  set  to  work,  and  carved  the  fowls  almost  as  expe- 
ditiously as  his  wife  operated  on  the  haunch  of  mutton. 
Whether  he  ever  finished  the  story  is  not  known  ;  but,  if  he 
did,  nobody  heard  it. 

As  the  ice  was  now  broken,  and  the  new  inmates  more  at 
home,  every  member  of  the  company  felt  more  at  ease.  Tibbs 
himself  most  certainly  did,  because  he  went  to  sleep  immedi- 
ately after  dinner.  Mr.  Hicks  and  the  ladies  discoursed 
most  eloquently  about  poetry,  and  the  theatres,  and  Lord 
Chesterfield's  Letters ;  and  Mr.  Calton  followed  up  what 
everybody  said,  wdth  continuous  double  knocks.  Mrs.  Tibbs 
highly  approved  of  every  observation  that  fell  from  Mrs. 
Maplesone  ;  and  as  Mr.  Simpson  sat  with  a  smile  upon  his 
face  and  said  "Yes,"  or  "Certainly,"  at  intervals  of  about 
four  minutes  each,  he  received  full  credit  for  understanding 
what  was  going  forward.  The  gentlemen  rejoined  the  ladies 
in  the  drawing-room  very  shortly  after  they  had  left  the  din' 


6i6 


SKE TCHES  BY  BOZ. 


ing'parior.  Mrs.  Maplesone  and  Mr.  Calton  played  cribbage^ 
and  the  "young  people''  amused  themselves  with  music  and 
conversation.  The  Miss  Maplesones  sang  the  most  fascina- 
ting duets,  and  accompanied  themselves  on  guitars,  orna- 
mented with  bits  of  ethereal. blue  ribbon.  Mr.  Simpson  put 
on  a  pink  waistcoat,  and  said  he  was  in  raptures  ;  and  Mr. 
Hicks  felt  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  poetry  or  the  seventh 
canto  of  Don  Juan — it  was  the  same  thing  to  him.  Mrs. 
Tibbs  was  quite  charmed  with  the  new  comers ;  and  Mr. 
Tibbs  spent  the  evening  in  his  usual  way — he  went  to  sleep, 
and  woke  up,  and  went  to  sleep  again,  and  woke  at  supper- 
time. 

#  #  #  *  ^  *  =3*: 

We  are  not  about  to  adopt  the  license  of  novel-writers,  and 
to  let  years  roll  on  but  w^e  will  take  the  liberty  of  request- 
ing the  reader  to  suppose  that  six  months  have  elapsed,  since 
the  dinner  we  have  described,  and  that  Mrs.  Tibbs's  boarders 
have,  during  that  period,  sang,  and  danced,  and  gone  to 
theatres  and  exhibitions,  together,  as  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
wherever  they  board,  often  do.  And  we  will  beg  them,  the 
period  we  have  mentioned  having  elapsed,  to  imagine  farther, 
that  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks  received,  in  his  own  bedroom  (a 
front  attic),  at  an  early  hour  one  morning,  a  note  from  Mr. 
Calton,  requesting  the  favor  of  seeing  him,  as  soon  as  conve- 
nient to  himself,  in  his  (Calton's)  dressing-room  on  the  second 
floor  back. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Calton  I'll  come  down  directly,"  said  Mr. 
Septimus  to  the  boy.  "  Stop — is  Mr.'  Calton  unwell  ?  " 
inquired  this  excited  walker  of  hospitals,  as  he  put  on  a  bed- 
furniture-looking  dressing-gown. 

"  Not  as  I  knows  on,  sir,"  replied  the  boy.  "  Please,  sir, 
he  looked  rather  rum,  as  it  might  be." 

*'Ah,  that's  no  proof  of  his  being  ill,"  returned  Hicks, 
unconsciously.  "Very  well  :  I'll  be  down  directly."  Down 
stairs  ran  the  boy  with  the  message,  and  down  went  the  ex- 
cited Hicks  himself,  almost  as  soon  as  the  message  was 
delivered.  "  Tap,  tap."  "  Come  in."— Door  opens,  and 
discovers  Mr.  Calton  sitting  in  an  easy  chair.  Mutual  shakes 
of  the  hand  exchanged,  and  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks  motioned  to 
a  seat.  A  short  pause.  Mr.  Hicks  coughed,  and  Mr.  Calton 
took  a  pinch  of  snuff.  It  was  one  of  those  interviews  where 
neither  party  knows  what  to  say.  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks  broke 
silence. 


THE  BOARDING-HOUSE. 


617 


"  I  received  a  note- — "  he  said,  very  tremulously,  in  a  voice 
like  a  Punch  with  a  cold 

Yes,"  returned  the  other,  "you  did." 
"  Exactly." 
"Yes." 

Now,  although  this  dialogue  must  have  been  satisfactory, 
both  gentlemen  felt  there  was  something  more  important  to 
be  said  ;  therefore  they  did  as  most  men  in  such  a  situation 
would  have  done — they  looked  at  the  table  with  a  determined 
aspect.  The  conversation  had  been  opened,  however,  and 
Mr.  Calton  had  made  up  his  mind  to  continue  it  with  a  regu- 
lar double  knock.    He  always  spoke  very  pompously. 

"  Hicks,"  said  he,  "  I  have  sent  for  you,  in  consequence  of 
certain  arrangements  which  are  pending  in  this  house,  con- 
nected with  a  marriage." 

"  With  a  marriage  !  "  gasped  Hicks,  compared  with  whose 
expression  of  countenance,  Hamlet's,  when  he  sees  his  father's 
ghost,  is  pleasing  and  composed. 

"  With  a  marriage,"  returned  the  knocker.  "  I  have  sent 
for  you  to  prove  the  great  confidence  I  can  repose  in  you." 

"And  will  you  betray  me  ?"  eagerly  inquired  Hicks,  who 
in  his  alarm  had  even  forgotten  to  quote. 

"  /  betray  yoit  !    Won't  you  betray  me  ?  " 

"  Never :  no  one  shall  know,  to  my  dying  day,  that  you 
had  a  hand  in  the  business,"  responded  the  agitated  Hicks, 
wdth  an  inflamed  countenance,  and  his  hair  standing  on  end  as 
if  he  were  on  the  stool  of  an  electrifying  machine  in  full 
operation. 

"  People  must  know  that,  some  time  or  other — within  a 
year,  I  imagine,"  said  Mr.  Calton,  wdth  an  air  of  great  self- 
complacency.    "  We  may  have  a  family." 

"  We  / — That  won't  affect  vou,  surely  ?  " 

"  The  devil  it  won't  !  " 

"  No  !  how  can  it  ?  "  said  the  bewildered  Hicks.  Calton 
was  too  much  inwrapped  in  the  contemplation  of  his  hap- 
piness to  see  the  equivoque  between  Hicks  and  himself ;  and 
threw  himself  back  in  his  chair.  "  Oh,  Matilda  !  "  sighed  the 
antique  beau,  in  a  lack-a-daisical  voice,  and  applying  his  right 
hand  a  little  to  the  left  of  the  fourth  button  of  his  waistcoat^ 
counting  from  the  bottom.    "  Oh,  Matilda  !  " 

"  What  Matilda      inquired  Hicks,  starting  up. 

*  Matilda  Maplesone,"  responded  the  other,  doing  the 
same. 


6iS 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


"  I  marry  her  to-morrow  morning/^  said  Hicks. 

"  It's  false,"  rejoined  his  companion  ;  "  I  marry  her!  ** 

"  You  marry  her?  " 

"  I  marry  her  !  " 

"  You  marry  Matilda  Maplesone  ?  " 
"  Matilda  Maplesone." 

"  Mhs  Maplesone  m3.YYy  you  ?  "  I 
"  Miss  Maplesone  !    No  :  Mrs.  Maplesone."  , 
"  Good  Heavens  !  "  said  Hicks,  falling  into  his  chair  :  "  You  ^ 
marry  the  mother,  and  I  the  daughter !  " 

"  Most  extraordinary  circumstance  !  "  replied  Mr.  Calton, 
and  rather  inconvenient  too  ;  for  the  fact  is,  that  owing  to 
Matilda's  wishing  to  keep  her  intention  secret  from  her 
daughters  until  the  ceremony  had  taken  place,  she  doesn't 
like  applying  to  any  of  her  friends  to  give  her  away.  I  enter- 
tain an  objection  to  making  the  affair  known  to  my  acquaint- 
ance just  now  ;  and  the  consequence  is,  that  I  sent  to  you  to 
know  whether  you'd  oblige  me  by  acting  as  father." 

"  I  should  have  been  most  happy,  I  assure  you,"  said 
Hicks,  in  a  tone  of  condolence;  ''but,  you  see,  I  shall  be 
acting  as  bridegroom.  One  character  is  frequently  a  con- 
sequence of  the  other  ;  but  it  is  not  usual  to  act  in  both  at  the 
same  time.  There's  Simpson — I  have  no  doubt  he'll  do  it  for 
you." 

''I  don't  like  to  ask  him,"  replied  Calton,  "he's  such  a 
donkey." 

Mr.  Septimus  Hicks  looked  up  at  the  ceiling,  and  down 
at  the  floor ;  at  last  an  idea  struck  him.  "  Let  the  man  of 
the  house,  Tibbs,  be  the  father,"  he  suggested  ;  and  then  he 
quoted,  as  peculiarly  applicable  to  Tibbs  and  the  pair — 

"  Oh  Powers  of  Heaven  I  what  dark  eyes  meets  she  there  ? 
'Tis — 'tis  her  father's — fixed  upon  the  pair.*' 

"The  idea  has  struck  me  already,"  said  Mr.  Calton  :  "  but 
you  see,  Matilda,  for  what  reason  I  know  not,  is  very  anxious 
that  Mrs.  Tibbs  should  know  nothing  about  it,  till  it's  all 
over.    It's  a  natural  delicacy,  after  all,  you  know." 

"  He's  the  best-natured'  little  man  in  existence,  if  yo\i 
manage  him  properly,"  said  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks.  "  Tell  him 
not  to  mention  it  to  his  wife,  and  assure  him  she  won't  mind 
it,  and  he'll  do  it  directly.  My  marriage  is  to  be  a  secret  one, 
on  account  of  the  mother  and  my  father  ;  therefore  he  must 
be  enjoined  to  secrecy." 

A  small  double  knock,  like  a  presumptuous  single  one, 


r 

THE  BOARDING-HOUSE'.  619 

was  that  instant  heard  at  the  street-door.  It  was  Tibbs  ;  it 
could  be  no  one  else  ;  for  no  one  else  occupied  five  minutes 
in  rubbing  his  shoes.  He  had  been  out  to  pay  the  baker's 
bill. 

"  Mr.  Tibbs,"  called  Mr.  Calton  in  a  very  bland  tone 
looking  over  the  banisters. 

"  Sir !  "  replied  he  of  the  dirty  face. 

"  Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  step  up  stairs  for  a  mo-  ^ 
ment  ? " 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  said  Tibbs,  delighted  to  be  taken  notice 
of.  The  bedroom  door  was  carefully  closed,  and  Tibbs,  hav- 
ing put  his  hat  on  the  floor  (as  most  timid  men  do),  and 
been  accommodated  with  a  seat,  looked  as  astounded  as  if 
he  were  suddenly  summoned  before  the  familiars  of  the  In- 
quisition. 

A  rather  unpleasant  occurrence,  Mr.  Tibbs,"  said  Calton, 
in  a  very  portentous  manner,  obliges  me  to  consult  you,  and 
to  beg  you  will  not  communicate  what  I  am  about  to  say,  to 
your  wife." 

Tibbs  acquiesced,  wondering  in  his  own  mind  what  the 
deuce  the  other  could  have  done,  and  imagining  that  at  least 
he  must  have  broken  the  best  decanters. 

Mr.  Calton  resumed ;  "  I  am  placed,  Mr.  Tibbs,  in  rather 
an  unpleasant  situation." 

Tibbs  looked  at  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks,  as  if  he  thought  Mr. 
H.'s  being  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  his  fellow-boarder 
might  constitute  the  unpleasantness  of  his  situation  ;  but  as 
he  did  not  exactly  know  what  to  say,  he  merely  ejaculated  the 
monosyllable    Lor  !  " 

Now,"  continued  the  knocker,  "  let  me  beg  you  will 
exhibit  no  manifestations  of  surprise,  which  may  be  over- 
heard by  the  domestics,  when  I  tell  you — command  your  feel- ' 
ings  of  astonishment — that  two  inmates  of  this  house  intend 
to  be  married  to-morrow  morning."  And  he  drew  back  his 
chair,  several  feet,  to  perceive  the  effect  of  the  unlooked-for 
announcement. 

If  Tibbs  had  rushed  from  the  room,  staggered  down  stairs, 
and  fainted  in  the  passage — if  he  had  instantaneously  jumped 
out  of  the  window  into  the  mews  behind  the  house,  in  an 
agony  of  surprise — his  behaviour  would  have  been  much  less 
inexplicable  to  Mr.  Calton  than  it  was,  when  he  put  his  hands 
into  his  inexpressible-pockets,  and  said  with  a  half-chuckle, 
"Just  so." 


020 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


"  You  are  not  surprised,  Mr.  Tibbs  ? "  inquired  Mr. 
Calton. 

''Bless  you,  no,  sir,"  returned  Tibbs;  "after  all,  it's 
very  natural.  When  two  young  people  get  together  you 
know  " 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  said  Calton,  with  an  indescribable 
air  of  self-satisfaction. 

"  You  don't  think  it's  at  all  an  out-of-the-way  affair  then  ?  " 
Jasked  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks,  who  had  watched  the  countenance 
of  Tibbs  in  mute  astonishment. 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Tibbs  ;  "  I  was  just  the  same  at  his  age." 
He  actually  smiled  when  he  said  this. 

"  How  devilish  well  I  must  carry  my  years  !  "  thought  the 
delighted  old  beau,  knowing  he  was  at  least  ten  years  older 
than  Tibbs  at  that  moment. 

''Well,  then,  to  come  to  the  point  at  once,"  he  continued, 
"  I  have  to  ask  you  whether  you  will  object  to  act  as  father 
on  the  occasion  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  Tibbs  ;  still  without  evincing  an 
atom  of  surprise. 

"You  will  not.?" 

"  Decidedly  not,"  reiterated  Tibbs,  still  as  calm  as  a  pot  of 
porter  with  the  head  off. 

Mr.  Calton  seized  the  hand  of  the  petticoat-governed 
little  man,  and  vowed  eternal  friendship  from  that  hour. 
Hicks,  w^ho  was  all  admiration  and  surprise  did  the  same. 

"  Now,  confess,"  asked  Mr.  Calton  of  Tibbs,  as  he  picked 
up  his  hat,  "were  you  not  a  little  surprised  ?  " 

"  I  believe  you  !  "  replied  that  illustrious  person,  hold- 
hig  up  one  hand  ;  "  I  believe  you  !  When  I  first  heard  of  it." 

"  So  sudden,"  said  Septimus  Hicks. 

"  So  strange  to  ask  me^  you  know,"  said  Tibbs. 

"  So  odd  altogether  !  "  said  the  superannuated  love-maker ; 
and  then  all  three  laughed. 

"  I  say,"  said  Tibbs,  shutting  the  door  which  he  had  pre. 
viously  opened,  and  giving  full  vent  to  a  hitherto  corked' 
up  giggle,  "  what  bothers  me  is,  what  will\\v^  father  say?  " 

Mr.  Septimus  Hicks  looked  at  Mr.  Calton. 

"Yes  ;  but  the  best  of  it  is,"  said  the  latter,  giggling  in 
his  turn,  "  I  haven't  got  a  father — he  !  he  !  he  !  " 

"  You  haven't  got  a  father.    No  ;  but  he  has,"  said  Tibbs^ 

"  Who  has  ?  "  inquired  Septimus  Hicks. 

"Why  7^/;;^." 


THE  BOARDING-HOUSE. 


"  Him  who  ?    Do  you  know  my  secret  ?    Do  you  mean 
me  ? " 

You  !    No  ;  you  know  who  I  mean/'  returned  Tibbs  with 
a  knowing  wink. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  whom  do  you  mean  ?  "  inquired  Mr. 
Calton,  who,  Uke  Septimus  Hicks,  was  all  but  out  of  his  senses 
at  the  strange  confusion. 

"  Why  Mr.  Simpson,  of  course,"  replied  Tibbs  ;  "  who  else 
could  I  mean  ?  " 

I  see  it  all,"  said  the  Byron-quoter  ;  "  Simpson  marries 
Julia  Maplesone  to-morrow  morning  !  " 

Undoubtedly,"  replied  Tibbs,  thoroughly  satisfied,  "  of 
course  he  does." 

It  would  require  the  pencil  of  Hogarth  to  illustrate — our 
feeble  pen  is  inadequate  to  describe — the  expression  which 
the  countenances  of  Mr.  Calton  and  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks  re- 
spectively assumed,  at  this  unexpected  announcement.  Equally 
impossible  is  it  to  describe,  although  perhaps  it  is  easier  for 
our  lady  readers  to  imagine,  what  arts  the  three  ladies  could 
have  used,  so  completely  to  entangle  their  separate  partners. 
Whatever  they  were,  however,  they  were  successful.  The 
mother  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  intended  marriage  of  both 
daughters  ;  and  the  young  ladies  were  equally  acquainted 
with  the  intention  of  their  estimable  parent.  They  agreed, 
however,  that  it  would  have  a  much  better  appearance  if  each 
feigned  ignorance  of  the  other's  engagement ;  and  it  was 
equally  desirable  that  all  the  marriages  should  take  place  on 
the  ^ame  da}^  to  prevent  the  discovery  of  one  clandestine 
alliance,  operating  prejudicially  on  the  others.  Hence,  the 
mystification  of  Mr.  Calton  and  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks,  and  the 
pre-engagement  of  the  unwary  Tibbs. 

On  the  following  morning,  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks  was  united- 
to  Miss  Matilda  Maplesone.  Mr.  Simpson  also  entered  into 
a  ^Mioly  alliance "  with  Miss  Julia;  Tibbs  acting  as  father, 
"  his  first  appearance  in  that  character."  Mr.  Calton,  not 
being  quite  so  eager  as  the  two  young  men,  was  rather  struck 
by  the  double  discovery  ;  and  as  he  had  found  some  difficulty  in 
getting  any  one  to  give  the  lady  away,  it  occurred  to  him  that 
the  best  mode  of  obviating  the  inconvenience  would  be  not 
to  take  her  at  all.  The  lady  however,  appealed,"  as  her 
counsel  said  on  the  trial  of  the  cause,  Maplesone  v.  Calton^  for 
a  breach  of  promise,  with  a  broken  heart,  to  the  outraged 
laws  of  her  country."    She  recovered  damages  to  the  amount 


622 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


of  looo/.  which  the  unfortunate  knocker  was  compelled  to 
pay.  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks  having  walked  the  hospitals,  took 
it  into  his  head  to  walk  off  altogether.  His  injured  wife  is  at 
present  residing  with  her  mother  at  Boulogne.  Mr.  Simpson, 
having  the  misfortune  to  lose  his  wife  six  weeks  after  marriage 
(by  her  eloping  with  an  officer  during  his  temporary  sojourn 
in  the  Fleet  Prison,  in  consequence  of  his  inability  to  discharge 
her  little  mantua-maker's  bill)  and  being  disinherited  by  his 
father  who  died  soon  afterwards,  was  fortunate  enough  to  ob- 
tain a  permanent  engagement  at  a  fashionable  haircutter's  ; 
hairdressing  being  a  science  to  which  he  had  frequently  directed 
his  attention.  In  this  situation  he  had  necessarily  many  op- 
portunities of  making  himself  acquainted  with  the  habits,  and 
style  of  thinking,  of  the  exclusive  portion  of  the  nobility  of 
this  kingdom.  To  this  fortunate  circumstance  are  we  indebted 
for  the  production  of  those  brilliant  efforts  of  genius,  his 
fashionable  novels,  which  so  long  as  good  taste,  unsullied  by 
exaggeration,  cant,  and  quackery,  continues  to  exist,  cannot 
fail  to  instruct  and  amuse  the  thinking  portion  of  the  com- 
munity. 

It  only  remains  to  add,  that  this  complication  of  disorders 
completely  deprived  poor  Mrs.  Tibbs  of  all  her  inmates,  ex- 
cept the  one  whom  she  could  have  best  spared — her  husband. 
That  wretched  little  man  returned  home,  on  the  day  of  the 
wedding,  in  a  state  of  partial  intoxication  ;  and,  under  the 
influence  of  wine,  excitement,  and  despair,  actually  dared  to 
brave  the  anger  of  his  wife.  Since  that  ill-fated  hour  he  has 
constantly  taken  his  meals  in  the  kitchen,  to  which  apart- 
ment, it  is  understood,  his  witticism  will  be  in  future  con- 
fined :  a  turn-up  bedstead  having  been  conveyed  there  by 
Mrs.  Tibbs's  order  for  his  exclusive  accommodation.  It  is 
possible  that  he  will  be  enabled  to  finish,  in  that  seclusion, 
his  story  of  the  volunteers. 

The  advertisement  has  again  appeared  in  the  morning 
papers.    Results  must  be  reserved  for  another  chapter. 

CHAPTER  THE  SECOND. 

"  Well  !  "  said  little  Mrs.  Tibbs  to  herself,  as  she  sat  In 
the  front  parlor  of  the  Coram-street  mansion  one  morning, 
mending  a  piece  of  stair-carpet  off  the  first  landing  ; — "  Things 
have  not  turned  out  so  badly,  either,  and  if  I  only  get  a  favor- 
able answer  to  the  advertisement^,  we  shall  be  fiill  again." 


THE  BOARDING-HOUSE, 


Mrs.  Tibbs  resumed  her  occupation  of  making  worsted 
lattice-work  in  the  carpet,  anxiously  listening  to  the  twopenny 
postman,  who  was  hammering  his  way  down  the  street,  at  the 
rate  of  a  penny  a  knock.  The  house  was  as  quiet  as  possible. 
There  was  only  one  low  sound  to  be  heard — it  was  the  un- 
happy Tibbs  cleaning  the  gentlemen's  boots  in  the  back 
kitchen,  and  accompanying  himself  with  a  buzzing  noise,  in 
wretched  mockery  of  humming  a  tune. 

The  postman  drew  near  the  house.  He  paused — so  did 
Mrs.  Tibbs.    A  knock — a  bustle — a  letter — post-paid. 

"  T.  I.  presents  compt.  to  I.  T.  and  T.  I.  begs  To  say 
that  i  see  the  advertisement  And  she  will  Do  Herself  the 
pleasure  of  calling  On  you  at  12  o'clock  to-morrow  morning. 

"T.  I.  as  To  apologize  to  I.  T.  for  the  shortness  Of  the 
notice  But  i  hope  it  will  not  unconvenience  you. 

"  I  remain  yours  Truly 

''Wednesday  evening. 

Little  Mrs.  Tibbs  perused  the  document,  over  and  over 
again ;  and  the  more  she  read  it,  the  more  was  she  confused 
by  the  mixture  of  the  first  and  third  person  ;  the  substitution 
of  the  "  1  "  for  the  "  T.  I.  ; "  and  the  transition  from  the  ''  I. 
T."  to  the  ''you."  The  writing  looked  like  a  skein  of  thread 
in  a  tangle,  and  the  note  was  ingeniously  folded  into  a  perfect 
square,  with  the  direction  squeezed  up  into  the  right-hand 
corner,  as  if  it  were  ashamed  of  itself.  The  back  of  the 
epistle  was  pleasingly  ornamented  with  a  large  red  wafer, 
which,  with  the  addition  of  divers  ink-stains,  bore  a  marvel- 
lous resemblance  to  a  black  beetle  trodden  upon.  One  thing, 
however,  was  perfectly  clear  to  the  perplexed  Mrs.  Tibbs. 
Somebody  was  to  call  at  twelve.  The  drawing-room  was 
forthwith  dusted  for  the  third  time  that  morning ;  three  or 
four  chairs  were  pulled  out  of  their  places,  and  a  correspond- 
ing number  of  books  carefully  upset,  in  order  that  there  might 
be  a  due  absence  of  formality.  Down  went  the  piece  of  stair- 
carpet  before  noticed,  and  up  ran  Mrs.  Tibbs  "  to  make  her- 
self tidy." 

The  clock  of  New  Saint  Pancras  Church  struck  twelve, 
and  the  Foundling,  with  laudable  politeness,  did  the  same  ten 
minutes  afterwards.  Saint  something  else  struck  the  quarter, 
and  then  there  arrived  a  single  lady  with  a  double  knock,  in 
a  pelisse  the  color  of  the  interior  of  a  damson  pie  ;  a  bonnet 
37 


624 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


of  the  same,  with  a  regular  conservatory  of  artificial  flowers  \ 
a  white  veil,  and  a  green  parasol,  with  a  cobweb  border. 

The  visitor  (who  was  very  fat  and  red-faced)  was  shown 
into  the  drawing-room  ;  Mrs.  Tibbs  presented  herself,  and  the 
negotiation  commenced. 

"  I  called  in  consequence  of  an  advertisement,"  said  the 
stranger,  in  a  voice  as  if  she  had  been  playing  a  set  of  Pan's 
pipes  for  a  fortnight  without  leaving  off. 

^*  Yes  1  "  said  Mrs.  Tibbs,  rubbing  her  hands  very  slowly, 
and  looking  the  applicant  full  in  the  face — two  things  she 
always  did  on  such  occasions. 

"  Money  isn't  no  object  whatever  to  me,"  said  the  lady, 
"so  much  as  living  in  a  state  of  retirement  and  obtrusion." 

Mrs.  Tibbs,  as  a  matter  of  course,  acquiesced  in  such  an 
exceedingly  natural  desire. 

''I  am  constantly  attended  by  a  medical  man,"  resumed 
the  pelisse  wearer ;  "  I  have  been  a  shocking  unitarian  for 
some  time — I,  indeed,  have  had  very  little  peace  since  the 
death  of  Mr.  Bloss." 

Mrs.  Tibbs  looked  at  the  relict  of  the  departed  Bloss,  and 
thought  he  must  have  had  very  little  peace  in  his  time.  Of 
course  she  could  not  say  so ;  so  she  looked  very  sympa- 
thizing. 

"  I  shall  be  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Bloss  ;  "  but,  for  that  trouble  I  am  willing  to  pay.  I  am  going 
through  a  course  of  treatment  which  renders  attention  neces- 
sary. I  have  one  mutton  chop  in  bed  at  half-past  eight,  and 
another  at  ten,  every  morning." 

Mrs.  Tibbs,  as  in  duty  bound,  expressed  the  pity  she  felt 
for  anybody  placed  in  such  a  distressing  situation  ;  and  the 
carnivorous  Mrs.  Bloss  proceeded  to  arrange  the  various  pre- 
liminaries with  wonderful  despatch.  "  Now  mind,"  said  that 
lady,  after  terms  were  arranged  ;  "  I  am  to  have  the  second- 
floor  front,  for  my  bedroom  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 
And  you'll  find  room  for  my  little  serv^ant  Agnes  ?  " 

"Oh  !  certainly." 

"  And  I  can  have  one  of  the  cellars  in  the  area  for  my 
bottled  porter." 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure  ; — James  shall  get  it  ready 
for  you  by  Saturday." 

"And  I'll  join  the  company  at  the  breakfast-table  on  Sun- 
day morning,"  said  Mrs.  Bloss.    "  I  shall  get  up  on  purpose.'' 


THE  BOARDING-HOUSE.  625 

Very  well,"  returned  Mrs.  Tibbs,  in  her  most  amiable 
tone ;  for  satisfactory  references  had  "  been  given  and  re- 
quired," and  it  was  quite  certain  that  the  new  comer  had 
plenty  of  money.  ^'It's  rather  singular,"  continued  Mrs. 
Tibbs,  with  what  was  meant  for  a  most  bewitching  smile, 
that  we  have  a  gentleman  now  with  us,  who  is  in  a  very 
delicate  state  of  health — a  Mr.  Gobler. — His  apartment  Is  the 
back  drawing-room." 

"  The  next  room  t  "  inquired  Mrs.  Bloss. 

"  The  next  room,"  repeated  the  hostess. 

^'  How  very  promiscuous  !  "  ejaculated  the  widow. 

"  He  hardly  ever  gets  up,"  said  Mrs.  Tibbs  in  a  whisper. 

"  lyor !  "  cried  Mrs.  Bloss,  in  an  equally  low  tone. 
And  when  he  is  up,"  said  Mrs.  Tibbs,  "we  never  can 
persuade  him  to  go  to  bed  again." 

"Dear  me!"  said  the  astonished  Mrs.  Bloss,  drawing  her 
chair  nearer  Mrs.  Tibbs.    "  What  is  his  complaint  1  " 

"Why,  the  fact  is,"  replied  Mrs.  Tibbs,  with  a  most  com- 
*nunicative  air,  "he  has  no  stomach  whatever." 

"  No  what  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Bloss,  with  a  look  of  the  most 
indescribable  alarm. 

"No  stomach,"  repeated  Mrs.  Tibbs,  with  a  shake  of  the 
head. 

"  Lord  bless  us !  what  an  extraordinary  case !  "  gasped 
Mrs.  Bloss,  as  if  she  understood  the  communication  in  its 
literal  sense,  and  was  astonished  at  a  gentleman  without  a 
stomach  finding  it  necessary  to  board  anywhere. 

"When  I  say  he  has  no  stomach,"  explained  the  chatty 
little  Mrs.  Tibbs,  "  I  mean  that  his  digestion  is  so  much  im- 
paired, and  his  interior  so  deranged,  that  his  stomach  is  not 
of  the  least  use  to  him  ; — in  fact,  it's  an  inconvenience  " 

"  Never  heard  such  a  case  in  my  life  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Bloss.    "  Why,  he^s  worse  than  I  am." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  replied  Mrs.  Tibbs  ; — "  certainly."  She  said 
this  with  great  confidence,  for  the  damson  pelisse  suggested 
that  Mrs.  Bloss,  at  all  events,  was  not  suffering  under  Mr. 
Gobler's  complaint. 

"  You  have  quite  incited  my  curiosity,"  said  Mrs.  Bloss, 
as  she  rose  to  depart.    "  How  I  long  to  see  him  !  " 

"  He  generally  comes  down,  once  a  week,"  replied  Mrs. 
Tibbs  ;  "  I  dare  say  you'll  see  him  on  Sunday."  With  this 
consolatory  promise  Mrs.  Bloss  was  obliged  to  be  contented. 
She  accordingly  walked  slowly  down  the  stairs,  detailing  her 

40 


626 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


complaints  all  the  way  ;  and  Mrs.  Tibbs  followed  her,  uttering 
an  exclamation  of  compassion  at  every  step.  James  (who 
looked  very  gritty,  for  he  was  cleaning  the  knives)  fell  up  the 
kitchen-stairs,  and  opened  the  street-door ;  and,  after  mutual 
farewells,  Mrs.  Bloss  slowly  departed,  down  the  shady  side  of 
the  street. 

It  is  almost  superfluous  to  say,  that  the  lady  whom  we 
have  just  shown  out  at  the  street-door  (and  whom  the  two' 
female  servants  are  now  inspecting  from  the  second-floor  win- 
dows) was  exceedingly  vulgar,  ignorant,  and  selfish.  Her 
deceased  better-half  had  been  an  eminent  cork-cutter,  in  which 
capacity  he  had  amassed  a  decent  fortune.  He  had  no  rela- 
tive but  his  nephew,  and  no  friend  but  his  cook.  The  former 
had  the  insolence  one  morning  to  ask  for  the  loan  of  fifteen 
pounds  ;  and,  by  way  of  retaliation,  he  married  the  latter  next 
day  ;  he  made  a  will  immediately  afterwards,  containing  a 
burst  of  honest  indignation  against  his  nephew  (who  supported 
himself  and  two  sisters  on  loo/.  a-year),  and  a  bequest  of  his 
whole  property  to  his  wife.  He  felt  ill  after  breakfast,  and 
died  after  dinner.  There  is  a  mantelpiece-looking  tablet  in 
a  civic  parish  church,  setting  forth  his  virtues,  and  deploring 
his  loss.  He  never  dishonored  a  bill,  or  gave  away  a  half- 
penny. 

The  relic  and  sole  executrix  of  this  noble-minded  man  was 
an  odd  mixture  of  shrewdness  and  simplicity,  liberality  and 
meanness.  Bred  up  as  she  had  been,  she  knew  no  mode  of 
living  so  agreeable  as  a  boarding-house  ;  and  having  nothing 
to  do,  and  nothing  to  wish  for,  she  naturally  imagined  she 
must  be  very  ill — an  impression  which  was  most  assiduously 
promoted  by  her  medical  attendant.  Dr.  Wosky,  and  her  hand- 
maid Agnes  :  both  of  whom,  doubtless  for  good  reasons, 
encouraged  all  her  extravagant  notions. 

Since  the  catastrophe  recorded  in  the  last  chapter,  Mrs. 
Tibbs  had  been  very  shy  of  young-lady  boarders.  Her  pres- 
ent inmates  were  all  lords  of  the  creation,  and  she  availed 
herself  of  the  opportunity  of  their  assemblage  at  the  dinner- 
table,  to  announce  the  expected  arrival  of  Mrs.  Bloss.  The 
gentlemen  received  the  communication  with  stoical  indiffer- 
ence, and  Mrs.  Tibbs  devoted  all  her  energies  to  prepare  for 
the  reception  of  the  valetudinarian.  The  second-floor  front 
was  scrubbed,  and  washed,  and  flannelled,  till  the  wet  went 
through  to  the  drawing-room  ceiling.  Clean  white  counter- 
panes,  and  curtains,  and  napkins,  water-bottles  as  clear  as 


THE  BOARDING-HOUSE. 


627 


crystal,  blue  jugs,  and  mahogany  furniture,  added  to  the 
splendor,  and  increased  the  comfort,  of  the  apartment.  The 
warming-pan  was  in  constant  requisition,  and  a  fire  lighted  in 
the  room  every  day.  The  chattels  of  Mrs.  Bloss  were  for- 
warded l3y  instalments.  First,  there  came  a  large  hamper  of 
Guinness's  stout,  and  an  umbrella  ,  then,  a  train  of  trunks  • 
then,  a  pair  of  clogs  and  a  bandbox  ;  then,  an  easy  chair  with 
an  air-cushion  ;  then,  a  variety  of  suspicious-looking  packages  ; 
and — though  last  not  least  " — Mrs.  Bloss  and  Agnes  :  the 
•latter  in  a  cherry-colored  merino  dress,  open-work  stockings, 
and  shoes  with  sandals  :  like  a  disguised  Columbine. 

The  installation  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  as  Chancellor 
of  the  University  of  Oxford,  was  nothing,  in  point  of  bustle 
and  turmoil,  to  the  installation  of  Mrs.  Bloss  in  her  new  quar- 
ters. True,  there  w^as  no  bright  doctor  of  civil  law  to  deliver 
a  classical  address  on  the  occasion  ;  but  there  were  several 
other  old  women  present  who  spoke  quite  as  much  to  the  pur  - 
pose, and  understood  themselves  equally  well.  The  chop- 
eater  was  so  fatigued  with  the  process  of  removal  that  .she 
declined  leaving  her  room  until  the  following  morning  \  so  a 
mutton-chop,  pickle,  a  pill,  a  pint  bottle  of  stout,  and  other 
medicines,  were  carried  up  stairs  for  her  consumption. 

"Why,  what  do  you  think,  ma'am  ?  "  inquired  the  inquisi- 
tive Agnes  of  her  mistress,  after  they  had  been  in  the  house 
some  three  hours  ;  what  do  you  think,  ma'am  ?  the  lady  of 
the  house  is  married." 

"  Married  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bloss,  taking  the  pill  and  a  drauglU 
of  Guinness — married  !    Unpossible  !  " 

^'  She  is  indeed,  ma'am,"  returned  the  Columbine  ;  "  aixl 
her  husband,  ma'am,  lives — he — he — he — lives  in  the  kitchen, 
ma'am." 

"  In  the  kitchen  !  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am  :  and  he — he — he — the  housemaid  says,  he 
never  goes  into  the  parlor  except  on  Sundays  ;  and  that  Mrs. 
Tibbs  makes  him  clean  the  gentlemen's  boots  ;  and  that  he 
cleans  the  windows,  too,  sometimes  ;  and  that  one  morning 
early,  when  he  was  in  the  front  balcony  cleaning  the  draw- 
ing-room windows,  he  called  out  to  a  gentleman  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  w^ay,  who  used  to  live  here — *  Ah  !  Mr.  Calton, 
sir,  how  are  you  ? '  "  Here  the  attendant  laughed  till  Mrs. 
Bloss  was  in  serious  apprehension  of  her  chuckling  herself 
into  a  fit. 

"Well,  I  never!  "  said  Mrs.  Bloss. 


628 


SKE TCHES  BY  BOZ, 


"Yes.  And  please,  ma'am,  the  servants  gives  him  gin^ 
and-water  sometimes  ;  and  then  he  cries,  and  says  he  hates^ 
his  wife  and  the  boarders,  and  wants  to  tickle  them."  % 

"  Tickle  the  boarders  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bloss,  seriouslj^ 
alarmed.  '.j. 

"No,  ma'am,  not  the  boarders,  the  servants." 

"  Oh,  is  that  all !  "  said  Mrs.  Bloss,  quite  satisfied. 

"  He  wanted  to  kiss  me  as  I  came  up  the  kitchen-stairs^ 
just  now,"  said  Agnes,  indignantly  ;  "  but  I  gave  it  him — a 
little  wretch  !  " 

This  intelligence  was'but  too  true.  A  long  course  of  sni  ^ 
bing  and  neglect ;  his  days  spent  in  the  kitchen,  and  his  nights 
in  the  turn-up  bedstead,  had  completely  broken  the  little 
spirit  that  the  unfortunate  volunteer  had  ever  possessed.  He 
had  no  one  to  whom  he  could  detail  his  injuries  but  the  ser- 
vants, and  they  were  almost  of  necessity  his  chosen  confidants. 
It  is  no  less  strange  than  true,  however,  that  the  little  weak- 
nesses which  he  had  incurred,  most  probably  during  his  mili- 
tary career,  seemed  to  increase  as  his  comforts  diminished. 
He  was  actually  a  sort  of  journeyman  Giovanni  of  the  base- 
ment story. 

The  next  morning,  being  Sunday,  breakfast  was  laid  in  the 
front  parlor  at  ten  o'clock.  Nine  was  the  usual  time,  but  the 
family  always  breakfasted  an  hour  later  on  Sabbath.  Tibbs 
enrobed  himself  in  his  Sunday  costume — a  black  coat,  and 
exceedingly  short,  thin  trousers  ;  with  a  very  large  white 
waistcoat,  white  stockings  and  cravat,  and  Blucher  boots — 
^nd  mounted  to  the  parlor  aforesaid.  Nobody  had  come 
down,  and  he  amused  himself  by  drinking  the  contents  of  the 
milkpot  with  a  teaspoon. 

A  pair  of  slippers  were  heard  descending  the  stairs. 
Tibbs  flew  to  a  chair  ;  and  a  stern-looking  man,  of  about 
fifty,  with  very  little  hair  on  his  head,  and  a  Sunday  paper  in 
his  hand,  entered  the  room. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Evenson,"  said  Tibbs,  very  humbly^ 
with  something  between  a  nod  and  a  bow. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Tibbs  ?  "  replied  he  of  the  slippers, 
as  he  sat  himself  down,  and  began  to  read  his  paper  without 
saying  another  word. 

"  Is  Mr.  Wisbottle  in  town  to-day,  do  you  know  sir  ?  "  in- 
quired Tibbs,  just  for  the  sake  of  saying  something. 

"  I  should  think  he  was,"  replied  the  stern  gentleman. 
"  He  was  whistling  ^The  Light  Guitar,'  in  the  next  room  to 
mine,  at  five  o'clock  this  morning." 


I-  THE  BOARDING-HOUSE.  629 

rHe's  very  fond  of  whistling,"  said  Tibbs,  with  a  slight 
Ik. 
r  Yes — I  ain't/^  was  the  laconic  reply, 
lilr.  John  Evenson  was  in  the  receipt  of  an  independent 
|me,  arising  chiefly  from  various  houses  he  owned  in  the 
erent  suburbs.  He  was  very  morose  and  discontented. 
He  was  a  thorough  radical,  and  used  to  attend  a  great  variety 
of  public  meetings,  for  the  express  purpose  of  finding  fault 
with  everything  that  was  proposed.  Mr.  Wisbottle,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  a  high  Tory.  He  was  a  clerk  in  the  Woods 
and  Forests  office,  which  he  considered  rather  an  aristocratic 
employment ;  he  knew  the  peerage  by  heart,  and  could  tell 
you  0i4-hand,  where  any  illustrious  personage  lived.  He  had 
a  good  set  of  teeth,  and  a  capital  tailor.  Mr.  Evenson  looked 
on  all  these  qualifications  with  profound  contempt ;  and  the 
^  consequence  was  that  the  two  were  always  disputing,  much 
to  the  edification  of  the  rest  of  the  house.  It  should  be  added, 
that,  in  addition  to  his  partiality  for  whistling,  Mr.  Wisbottle 
had  a  great  idea  of  his  singing  powers.  There  were  two  other 
boarders,  besides  the  gentleman  in  the  back  drawing-room — 
Mr.  Alfred  Tomkins  and  Mr.  Frederick  O'Bleary.  Mr.  Tom- 
kins  was  a  clerk  in  a  wine-house  ;  he  was  a  connoisseur  in 
paintings,  and  had  a  wonderful  eye  for  the  picturesque.  Mr. 
O'Bleary  was  an  Irishman,  recently  imported ;  he  vv^as  in  a 
perfectly  wild  state  ;  and  had  come  over  to  England  to  be  an 
apothecary,  a  clerk  m  a  government  office,  an  actor,  a  report- 
er, or  anything  else  that  turned  up — he  was  not  particular. 
He  was  on  familiar  terms  with  two  small  Irish  members,  and 
got  franks  for  everybody  in  the  house.  He  felt  convinced 
that  his  intrinsic  merits  must  procure  him  a  high  destiny.  He 
wore  shepherd's-plaid  inexpressibles,  and  used  to  look  under 
all  the  ladies'  bonnets  as  he  walked  along  the  streets.  His 
manners  and  appearance  reminded  one  of  Orson. 

"  H  ere  comes  Mr.  Wisbottle,"  said  Tibbs  \  and  Mr.  Wis- 
bottle forthwith  appeared  in  blue  slippers,  and  a  shawl  dress- 
ing-gown, whistling    Di place}','' 

"Good-morning,  sir,"  said  Tibbs  again.  It  was  almost 
the  only  thing  he  ever  said  to  anybody. 

"  How  are  you,  Tibbs  ?  "  condescendingly  replied  the  ama- 
teur ;  and  he  walked  to  the  window,  and  whistled  louder  than 
ever. 

"  Pretty  air,  that  ! "  said  Evenson,  with  a  snarl,  and  with- 
out taking  his  eyes  off  the  paper. 


630 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


^'  Glad  you  like  it,"  replied  Wisbottle,  highly  gratified.  : 
"  Don't  you  think  it  would  sound  better,  if  you  whistled  if 

a  little  louder  ?  "  inquired  the  mastiff. 

"  No  ;  I  don't  think  it  would,"  rejoined  the  unconscious 

Wisbottle. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  Wisbottle,"  said  Evenson,  who  ha($ 
been  bottling  up  his  anger  for  some  hours — "  the  next  Xim4. 
you  feel  disposed  to  whistle  'The  Light  Guitar'  at  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  I'll  trouble  you  to  whistle  it  with  your  head  out 
o'  window.    If  you  don't,  I'll  learn  the  triangle — I  will,  by — -'-^ 

The  entrance  of  Mrs.  Tibbs  (with  the  keys  in  a  littleP 
basket)  interrupted  the  threat,  and  prevented  its  conclusion. 

Mrs.  Tibbs  apologized  for  being  down  rather  late  ;  the 
bell  was  rung ;  James  brought  up  the  urn,  and  received  an 
unlimited  order  for  dry  toast  and  bacon.  Tibbs  sat  down  at 
the  bottom  of  the  table,  and  began  eating  water-cresses  like  a 
Nebuchadnezzar.  Mr.  O'Bleary  appeared,  and  Mr.  Alfred 
Tomkins.  The  compliments  of  the  morning  were  exchanged,- 
and  the  tea  was  made. 

"  God  bless  me  !  "  exclaimed  Tomkins,  who  had  been  ' 
looking  out  at  the  window.  *'  Here — Wisbottle — pray  come 
here — make  haste." 

Mr.  Wisbottle  started  from  the  table,  and  every  one  looked 

up. 

Do  you  see,"  said  the  connoisseur,  placing  Wisbottle  in 
the  right  position — "  a  little  more  this  way  :  there — do  you 
see  how  splendidly  the  light  falls  upon  the  left  side  of  that 
broken  chimney-pot  at  No.  48  ?  " 

"  Dear  me  !  I  see,"  replied  Wisbottle,  in  a  tone  of  admi- 
ration. 

I  never  saw  an  object  stand  out  so  beautifully  against 
the  clear  sky  in  my  life,"  ejaculated  Alfred.  Everybody  (ex- 
cept John  Evenson)  echoed  the  sentiment  ;  for  Mr.  Tomkins 
had  a  great  character  for  finding  out  beauties  which  no  one 
else  could  discover — he  certainly  deserved  it. 

I  have  frequently  observed  a  chimney-pot  in  College- 
green,  Dublin,  which  has  a  much  better  effect,"  said  ihe  pa- 
triotic O'Bleary,  who  never  allowed  Ireland  to  be  outdone  on 
any  point. 

The  assertion  was  received  with  obvious  incredulity,  for 
Mr.  Tomkins  declared  that  no  ether  cnimney  pot  in  the 
United  Kingdom,  broken  or  unbroken,  could  be  so  beautiful 
as  the  one  at  No.  48. 


THE  BOARDING-HOUSE.  631 

The  room-door  was  suddenly  thrown  open,  and  Agnes  ap^ 
peared  leading  in  Mrs.  Bloss,  who  was  dressed  in  a  geranium- 
colored  muslin  gown,  and  displayed  a  gold  watch  of  huge  di- 
mensions ;  a  chain  to  match  ;  and  a  splendid  assortment  of 
rings,  with  enormous  stones.  A  general  rush  was  made  for  a 
chair,  and  a  general  introduction  took  place.  Mr.  John  Even- 
son  made  a  slight  inclination  of  the  head  ;  Mr.  Frederick 
O'Bleary,  Mr.  Alfred  Tomkins  and  Mr.  Wisbottle,  bowed 
like  the  mandarins  in  a  grocer's  shop ;  Tibbs  rubbed  hands 
and  went  round  in  circles.  He  was  observed  to  close  one 
eye,  and  to  assume  a  clock-work  sort  of  expression  with  the 
other ;  this  has  been  considered  as  a  wink,  and  it  has  been 
reported  that  Agnes  was  its  object.  We  repel  the  calumny, 
and  challenge  contradiction. 

.  Mrs.  Tibbs  inquired  after  Mrs.  Bloss's  health  in  a  low  tone, 
Mrs.  Bloss,  with  a  supreme  contempt  for  the  memory  of 
Lindley  Murray,  answered  the  various  questions  in  a  most 
satisfactory  manner  ;  and  a  pause  ensued,  during  which  the 
eatables  disappeared  with  awful  rapidity. 

You  must  have  been  very  much  pleased  with  the  appear- 
ance of  the  ladies  going  to  the  Drawing-room  the  other  day, 
Mr.  O'Bleary  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tibbs,  hoping  to  start  a  topic. 

Yes,"  replied  Orson,  with  a  mouth  full  of  toast. 
"  Never  saw  anything  like  it  before,  I  suppose  ? "  sug- 
gested Wisbottle. 

No  —  except  the  Lord  Lieutenant's  levees,"  replied 
O'Bleary. 

Are  they  at  all  equal  to  our  drawing-rooms  ? " 
Oh,  infinitely  superior !  " 

Gad  !    I  don't  know,"  said  the  aristocratic  Wisbottle, 
the  Dowager  Marchioness  of  Publiccash  was  most  magnifi- 
cently dressed,  and  so  was  the  Baron  Slappenbachenhausen." 
"  What  was  he  presented  on  t  "  inquired  Evenson. 

On  his  arrival  in  England." 
"  I  thought  so,"  growled  the  radical ;  *^you  never  hear  of 
these  fellows  being  presented  on  their  going  away  again. 
fThey  know  better  than  that." 

\  Unless  somebody  pervades  them  with  an  apintment," 
'said  Mrs.  Bloss,  joining  in  the  conversation  in  a  faint  voice. 

"Well,"  said  Wisbottle,  evading  the  point,  "it's  a  splendid 
sight." 

"  And  did  it  never  occur  to  you,"  inquired  the  radical, 
who  never  would  be  quiet  ;  "  did  it  never  occur  to  you  that 
you  pay  for  these  precious  ornaments  of  society  1  " 


632 


SKE  TCHES  B  V  BOZ. 


"  It  certainly  has  occurred  to  me,"  said  Wisbottle,  whoi 

thought  this  answer  was  a  poser ;     it  has  occurred  to  me,a 

and  I  am  willing  to  pay  for  them."  11 
"Well,  and  it  has  occurred  to  me  too,"  replied  John  Even-1 

son,    and  I  ain't  willing  to  pay  for  'em.    Then  why  should! 

1 1 — I  say,  why  should  I }  "  continued  the  politician,  layingp 
^  down  the  paper,  and  knocking  his  knuckles  on  the  tablel 

"  There  are  two  great  principles — demand — "  I 
"  A  cup  of  tea  if  you  please,  dear,"  interrupted  Tibbs.  f 
"And  supply — "  I 
"  May  I  trouble  you  to  hand  this  tea  to  Mr.  Tibbs  ? "  said 

Mrs.  Tibbs,  interrupting  the  argument,  and  unconsciously 

illustrating  it. 

The  thread  of  the  orator's  discourse  was  broken.  He 
drank  his  tea  and  resumed  the  paper. 

"  If  it's  very  fine,"  said  Mr.  Alfred  Tomkins,  addressing 
the  company  in  general,  "  I  shall  ride  down  to  Richmond  to- 
day, and  come  back  by  the  steamer.  There  are  some  splen- 
did effects  of  light  and  shade  on  the  Thames  ^  the  contrast 
between  the  blueness  of  the  sky  and  yellow  water  is  frequently 
exceedingly  beautiful."  Mr.  Wisbottle  hummed,  "  Flow  on, 
thou  shining  river." 

"We  have  some  splendid  steam-vessels  in  Ireland,"  said 
O'Bleary. 

"Certainly,"  said  Mrs.  BIoss,  delighted  to  find  a.  subject 
broached  in  which  she  could  take  part. 

"The  accommodations  are  extraordinary,"  said  O'Bleary. 

"Extraordinary  indeed,"  returned  Mrs.  Bloss.  "When 
Mr.  Bloss  was  alive,  he  was  promiscuously  obligated  to  go  to 
Ireland  on  business.  I  went  with  him,  and  raly  the  manner 
in  which  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  accommodated  with 
berths,  is  not  creditable." 

Tibbs,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  dialogue,  looked; 
aghast,  and  evinced  a  strong  inclination  to  ask  a  question, 
but  was  checked  by  a  look  from  his  wife.  Mr.  Wisbottle 
laughed,  and  said  Tomkins  had  made  a  pun  ^  and  Tomkins 
laughed  too  and  said  he  had  not. 

The  remainder  of  the  meal  passed  off  as  breakfasts  usually ^ 
do.  Conversation  flagged,  and  people  played  with  theii^ 
teaspoons.  The  gentlemen  looked  out  at  the  window ; 
walked  about  the  room  ;  and  when  they  got  near  the  door,j 
dropped  off  one  by  one.  Tibbs  retired  to  the  back  parlof 
by  his  wife's  orders,  to  check  the  greengrocer's  weekly  ac- 


THE  BOARDING-HOUSE. 


633 


count ;  and  ultimately  Mrs.  Tibbs  and  Mrs.  Bloss  were  left 
aione  together. 

^'Oh  dear  !  said  the  latter,  "I feel  alarmingly  faint;  it's 
very  singular.''  (It  certainly  was,  for  she  had  eaten  four 
pounds  of  solids  that  morning.)  "  By  the  bye,"  said  Mrs.  Bloss, 
"  I  have  not  seen  Mr.  What's-his-name  yet." 

"  Mr.  Gobler   "  suggested  Mrs.  Tibbs. 

"Yes." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Mrs.  Tibbs,  "  he  is  a  most  mysterious  person. 
He  has  his  meals  regularly  sent  up  stairs,  and  sometimes  don't 
leave  his  room  for  weeks  together." 

"  I  haven't  seen  or  heard  nothing  of  him,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Bloss. 

"  I  dare  say  you'll  hear  him  to-night,"  replied  Mrs.  Tibbs  j 
^Mie  generally  groans  a  good  deal  on  Sunday  evenings." 

"  I  never  felt  such  an  interest  in  any  one  in  my  life," 
ejaculated  Mrs.  Bloss.  A  little  double-knock  interrupted  the 
conversation  ;  Dr.  Wosky  was  announced,  and  duly  shown  in. 
He  was  a  little  man  with  a  red  face, — dressed  of  course  in 
black,  with  a  stiff  white  neckerchief.  He  had  a  very  good 
practice,  and  plenty  of  money,  which  he  had  amassed  by  in- 
variably humoring  the  worst  fancies  of  all  the  females  of  all 
the  families  he  had  ever  been  introduced  into.  Mrs.  Tibbs 
offered  to  retire,  but  was  entreated  to  stay. 

"  Well,  my  dear  ma'am,  and  how  are  we  ?  "  inquired  Wosky, 
in  a  soothing  tone. 

"  Very  ill  doctor — very  ill,"  said  Mrs.  Bloss,  in  a  whisper. 

"  Ah  !  we  must  take  care  of  ourselves  ;  we  must  indeed," 
said  the  obsequious  Wosky,  as  he  felt  the  pulse  of  his  inter- 
esting patient. 

"  How  is  our  appetite  ?  "- 

Mrs.  Bloss  shook  her  head. 

"  Our  friend  requires  great  care,"  said  Wosky,  appealing 
to  Mrs.  Tibbs,  who  of  course  assented.  "  I  hope,  however, 
with  the  blessing  of  Providence,  that  we  shall  be  enabled  to 
make  her  quite  stout  again."  Mrs.  Tibbs  wondered  in  her 
own  mind  what  the  patient  would  be  when  she  was  made 
quite  stout. 

"  We  must  take  stimulants,"  said  the  cunning  Wosky — 
"  plenty  of  nourishment,  and,  above  all,  we  must  keep  our 
nerves  quiet ;  we  positively  must  not  give  away  to  our  sensi- 
bilities. We  must  take  all  we  can  get,"  concluded  the  doctor^ 
as  he  pocketed  his  fee,  "and  we  must  keep  quiet." 


634 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


"  Dear  man  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bloss,  as  the  doctor  stepped 
into  his  carriage. 

"  Charming  creature  indeed — quite  a  lady's  man  !  "  said 
Mrs.  Tibbs,  and  Doctor  Wosky  rattled  away  to  make  fresh 
gulls  of  delicate  females,  and  pocket  fresh  fees. 

As  we  had  occasion,  in  a  former  paper,  to  describe  a 
dinner  at  Mrs.  Tibbs's  ;  and  as  one  meal  went  off  very  like 
another  on  all  ordinary  occasions  ;  we  will  not  fatigue  our 
readers  by  entering  into  any  other  detailed  account  of  ther; 
domestic  economy  of  the  establishment.  We  will  therefore 
proceed'  to  events,  merely  premising  that  the  mysterious 
tenant  of  the  back  drawing-room  w^as  a  lazy,  selfish  hypochon- 
driac ;  always  complaining  and  never  ill.  As  his  character 
in  many  respects  closely  assimilated  to  that  of  Mrs.  Bloss,  a 
very  warm  friendship  soon  sprung  up  between  them.  He 
was  tall,  thin,  and  pale  ;  he  always  fancied  he  had  a  severe 
pain  somewhere  or  other,  and  his  face  invariably  wore  a 
pinched,  screwed-up  expression ;  he  looked,  indeed,  like  a 
man  who  had  got  his  feet  in  a  tub  of  exceedingly  hot  water, 
against  his  will. 

For  two  or  three  months  after  Mrs.  Bloss's  first  appear- 
ance in  Coram-street,  John  Evenson  was  observed  to  become, 
every  day,  more  sarcastic  and  more  ill-natured  ;  and  there 
was  a  degree  of  additional  importance  in  his  manner,  which 
clearly  showed  that  he  fancied  he  had  discovered  something, 
which  he  only  wanted  a  proper  opportunity  of  divulging.  He 
found  it  at  last. 

One  evening,  the  different  inmates  of  the  house  were  as- 
sembled in  the  drawing-room  engaged  in  their  ordinary  occu- 
pations. Mr.  Gobler  and  Mrs.  Bloss  were  sitting  at  a  small 
card-table  near  the  centre  window,  playing  cribbage ;  Mr. 
Wisbottle  was  describing  semicircles  on  the  music-stool,  turn- 
ing over  the  leaves  of  a  book  on  the  piano,  and  humming 
most  melodiously ;  Alfred  Tomkins  was  sitting  at  the  round 
table,  with  his  elbows  duly  squared,  making  a  pencil  sketch 
of  a  head  considerably  larger  than  his  own ;  O'Bleary  was 
reading  Horace,  and  trying  to  look  as  if  he  understood  it ;  and 
John  Evenson  had  drawn  his  chair  close  to  Mrs.  Tibbs's  work- 
table,  and  was  talking  to  her  very  earnestly  in  a  low  tone 

"  I  can  assure  you,  Mrs.  Tibbs,"  said  the  radical,  laying 
his  forefinger  on  the  muslin  she  was  at  work  on  ;  "I  can  as- 
sure you,  Mrs.  Tibbs,  that  nothing  but  the  interest  I  take  in- 
your  welfare  would  induce  me  to  make  this  communication.  I 


THE  BOARDING-HOUSE. 


\.  repeat,  I  fear  Wisbottle  is  endeavoring  to  gain  the  affections 
of  that  yoUng  woman,  Agnes,  and  that  he  is  in  the  habit  of 
meeting  her  in  the  store-room  on  the  first  floor,  over  the 
leads.  From  my  bedroom  I  distinctly  heard  voices  there, 
last  night.  I  opened  my  door  immediately,  and  crept  very 
softly  on  to  the  landing ;  there  I  saw  Mr.  Tibbs,  who,  it  seems, 
had  been  disturbed  also. — Bless  me,  Mrs,  Tibbs,  you  change 
color  ! 

"No,  no — it's  nothing, returned  Mrs,  T.  in  a  hurried 
manner;  "it's  only  the  heat  of  the  room." 

"  A  flush  !  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Bloss  from  the  card-table  ; 
that's  good  for  four." 

"If  I  thought  it  was  Mr.  Wisbottle,"  said  Mrs.  Tibbs, 
after  a  pause,  "  he  should  leave  this  house  instantly." 

^  Go  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bloss  again. 

"  And  if  I  thought,"  added  the  hostess  with  a  most  threat- 
ening air,  "if  I  thought  he  was  assisted  by  Mr.  Tibbs" — 
"  One  for  his  nob  !  "  said  Gobler. 

"  Oh,"  said  Evenson,  in  a  most  soothing  tone— he  liked 
to  make  mischief — "I  should  hope  Mr.  Tibbs  was  not  in  any 
way  implicated.    He  always  appeared  to  me  very  harmless." 

"  I  have  generally  found  him  so,"  sobbed  poor  little  Mrs. 
Tibbs  ;  crying  like  a  watering-pot. 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  pray — Mrs.  Tibbs — consider — we  shall 
be  observed — pray,  don't  ! "'  said  John  Evenson,  fearing  his 
whole  plan  would  be  interrupted.  "  We  will  set  the  matter 
at  rest  with  the  utmost  care,  and  I  shall  be  most  happy  to 
assist  you  in  doing  so." 

Mrs.  Tibbs  murmured  her  thanks. 

"  When  you  think  every  one  has  retired  to  rest  to-night," 
said  Evenson  very  pompously,  "  if  you'll  meet  me  without  a 
light,  just  outside  my  bedroom-door,  by  the  staircase-window, 
I  think  we  can  ascertain  who  the  parties  really  are,  and  you 
will  afterwards  be  enabled  to  proceed  as  you  think  proper."  . 

Mrs.  Tibbs  was  easily  persuaded  ;  her  curiosity  was  ex- 
cited, her  jealousy  was  roused,  and  the  arrangement  was 
forthwith  made.  She  resumed  her  work,  and  John  Evenson 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
looking  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  The  game  of  cribbage 
was  over,  and  conversation  began  again. 

"  Well,  Mr.  O'Bleary,"  said  the  humming  top,  turning 
round  on  his  pivot,  and  facing  the  company,  "what  did  yo\i 
think  of  Vauxhair  the  other  night  t  " 


636 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


"  Oh,  it's  very  fair,"  replied  Orson,  who  had  been  enthu 
siastically  delighted  with  the  whole  exhibition. 

"  Never  saw  anything  like  that  Captain  Ross's  set-out — ^ 
eh  ?  " 

No,"  returned  the  patriot,  with  his  usual  reservation — 
Except  in  Dublin." 
"  I  saw  the  Count  de  Canky  and  Captain  Fitzthompson  in 
the  Gardens,"    said  Wisbottle :    "  they  appeared  much  de- 
lighted.". 

"Then  it  77iiisth^  beautiful,"  snarled  Evenson. 

"  I  think  the  white  bears  is  partickerlerly  well  done,"  sug- 
gested Mrs.  Bloss.  "  In  their  shaggy  white  coats,  they  look 
just  like  Polar  bears — don't  you  think  they  do,  Mr.  Evenson  ? " 

"  I  think  they  look  a  great  deal  more  like  omnibus  cads 
on  all  fours,"  replied  the  discontented  one. 

"  Upon  the  whole,  I  should  have  liked  our  evening  very 
well,"  gasped  Gobler  ;  "  only  I  caught  a  desperate  cold  which 
increased  my  pain  dreadfully !  I  was  obliged  to  have  several 
shower-baths,  before  I  could  leave  my  room." 

"  Capital  things  those  shower-baths  !  "  ejaculated  Wis- 
bottle. 

"  Excellent !  "  said  Tomkins. 

"  Delightful  !  "  chimed  in  O'Bleary.  (He  had  once  seen 
one,  outside  a  tinman's.) 

"  Disgusting  machines  !  "  rejoined  Evenson,  who  extended 
his  dislike  to  almost  every  created  object,  masculine,  feminine, 
or  neuter. 

"  Disgusting,  Mr.  Evenson  !  "  said  Gobler,  in  a  tone  of 
strong  indignation. — '^Disgusting!  Look  at  their  utility — 
consider  how  many  lives  they  have  saved  by  promoting  per- 
spiration. 

"Promoting  perspiration,  indeed,"  growled  John  Even- 
son,  stopping  short  in  his  walk  across  the  large  squares  in  the 
pattern  of  the  carpet — "  I  was  ass  enough  to  be  persuaded 
some  time  ago  to  have  one  in  my  bedroom.  'Gad,  I  was  in 
\t  once,  and  it  effectually  cured  me^  for  the  mere  sight  of  it 
threw  me  into  a  profuse  perspiration  for  six  months  after- 
wards," 

A  titter  followed  this  announcement,  and  before  it  had 
subsided  James  brought  up  "  the  tray,"  containing  the  remains 
of  a  leg  of  lamb  which  had  made  its  debut  at  dinner ;  bread  ; 
cheese  ;  an  atom  of  butter  in  a  forest  of  parsley ;  one  pickled 
walnut  and  the  third  of  another  ;  and  so  forth.    The  boy  dis- 


THE  BOARDING-HOUSEi 


637 


appeared,  and  returned  again  with  another  tray,  containing 
glasses  and  jugs  of  hot  and  cold  water.  The  gentlemen 
brought  in  their  spirit-bottles  ;  the  housemaid  placed  divers 
plated  bedroom  candlesticks  under  the  card-table  ;  and  the 
servants  retired  for  the  night. 

Chairs  were  drawn  round  the  table,  and  the  conversation 
proceeded  in  the  customary  manner.  John  Evenson,  who 
never  ate  supper,  lolled  on  the  sofa,  and  amused  himself  by 
contradicting  everybody.  O'Bleary  ate  as  much  as  he  could 
conveniently  carry,  and  Mrs.  Tibbs  felt  a  due  degree  of  in- 
dignation thereat ;  Mr.  Gobler  and  Mrs.  Bloss  conversed  most 
affectionately  on  the  subject  of  pill-taking,  and  other  innocent 
amusements  ;  and  Tomkins  and  Wisbottle  got  into  an  argu- 
ment ; "  that  is  to  say,  they  both  talked  very  loudly  and  vehe- 
mently, each  flattering  himself  that  he  had  got  some  advan- 
tage about  something,  and  neither  of  them  having  more  than 
a  very  indistin^  t  idea  of  what  they  were  talking  about.  An 
hour  or  two  p-assed  away  ;  and  the  boarders  and  the  brass 
candlesticks  retired  in  pairs  to  their  respective  bedrooms. 
John  Evenson  pulled  off  his  boots,  locked  his  door,  and  de- 
termined to  sit  up  until  Mr.  Gobler  had  retired.  He  always 
sat  in  the  drawing-room  an  hour  after  everybody  else  had  left 
it,  taking  medicine,  and  groaning. 

Great  Goram-street  was  hushed  into  a  state  of  profound 
repose  :  it  was  nearly  two  o'clock.  A  hackney-coach  now  and 
then  rumbled  slowly  by  ;  and  occasionally  some  stray  lawyer's 
clerk,  on  his  way  home  to  Somers'-town,  struck  his  iron  heel 
on  the  top  of  the  coal-cellar  with  a  noise  resembling  the  click 
of  a  smoke-jack.  A  low^,  monotonous,  gushing  sound  was 
heard,  which  added  considerably  to  the  romantic  dreariness 
of  the  scene.  It  was  the  water  coming  in"  at  number 
eleven. 

"  He  must  be  asleep  by  this  time,''  said  John  Evenson  to 
himself,  after  awaiting  with  exemplary  patience  for  nearly  an 
hour  after  Mr.  Gobler  had  left  the  drawing-room.  He  lis- 
tened for  a  few  moments  ;  the  house  was  perfectly  quiet ;  he 
extinguished  his  rushlight,  and  opened  his  bedroom-door. 
The  staircase  was  so  dark  that  it  was  impossible  to  see  any» 
thing. 

"  S — s — s  !  "  whispered  the  mischief-maker,  making  a 
noise  like  the  first  indication  a  catherine-wheel  gives  of  the 
probability  of  its  going  off. 

Hush  !  "  whispered  somebody  else. 


638 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


"  Is  that  you,  Mrs.  Tibbs  ?  " 
"  Yes,  sir." 
Where  ?  " 

"Here  ;"  and  the  misty  outline  of  Mrs.  Tibbs  appeared 
at  the  staircase  window,  hke  the  ghost  of  Queen  Anne  in  the 
tent  scene  in  Richard. 

"  This  way,  Mrs.  Tibbs,"  whispered  the  deUghted  busy- 
body :  "  give  me  your  hand — there  !  Whoever  these  people 
are,  they  are  in  the  store-room  now,  for  I  have  been  looking 
down  from,  my  window,  and  I  could  see  that  they  accidentally 
upset  their  candlestick,  and  are  now  in  darkness.  You  have 
no  shoes  on,  have  you  ?  " 

"  No  "  said  little  Mrs.  Tibbs,  who  could  hardly  speak  for 
trembling. 

"  Well ;  I  have  taken  my  boots  off,  so  we  can  go  down, 
close  to  the  store-room-door,  and  listen  over  the  banisters  ;  " 
and  down  stairs  they  both  crept  accordingly,  every  board  creak- 
ing like  a  patent  mangle  on  a  Saturday  afternoon. 

"  It's  Wisbottle  and  somebody,  I'll  swear,"  exclaimed  the 
radical  in  an  energetic  whisper,  when  they  had  listened  for  a 
few  moments. 

"  Hush — pray  let's  hear  what  they  say  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Tibbs,  the  gratification  of  .whose  curiosity  was  now  paramount 
to  every  other  consideration. 

"  Ah  !  if  I  could  but  believe  you,"  said  a  female  voice 
coquettishly,  "  I'd  be  bound  to  settle  my  missis  for  life." 

"  What  does  she  say  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Evenson,  who  was 
not  quite  so  well  situated  as  his  companion. 

"  She  says  she'll  settle  her  missis's  life,"  replied  Mrs. 
Tibbs.    "  The  wretch  !  they're  plotting  murder." 

"  I  know  you  want  money,"  continued  the  voice,  which  be- 
longed to  Agnes ;  and  if  you'd  secure  me  the  five  hundred 
pound,  I  warrant  she  should  take  fire  soon  enough." 

"  What's  that }  "  inquired  Evenson  again.  He  could  just 
hear  enough  to  want  to  hear  more. 

"  I  think  she  says  she'll  set  the  house  on  fire,"  replied  the 
affrighted  Mrs.  Tibbs.  "But  thank  God  I'm  insured  in  the 
Phcenix!  " 

"  The  moment  I  have  secured  your  mistress,  my  dear," 
said  a  man's  voice  in  a  strong  Irish  brogue,  "you  may  depend 
on  having  the  money." 

"  Bless  my  soul,  it's  Mr.  O'Bleary !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Tibbs,  in  a  parenthesis. 


THE  BOARDING-HOUSE. 


S39 


"  The  villain  ! said  the  indignant  Mr.  Evenson. 

"The  first  thing  lobe  done,"  continued  the  Hibernian, 
"  is  to  poison  Mr.  Gobler's  mind." 
Oh,  certainly,"  returned  Agnes. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  inquired  Evenson  again,  in  an  agony  of 
curiosity  and  a  whisper. 

"  He  says  she's  to  mind  and  poison  Mr.  Gobler,"  replied 
Mrs.  Tibbs,  aghast  at  this  sacrifice  of  human  life. 

"And  in  regard  of  Mrs.  Tibbs,"  continued  O'Bleary. — 
Mrs.  Tibbs  shuddered. 

"  Hush  !  "  exclaimed  Agnes,  in  a  tone  of  the  greatest 
alarm,  just  as  Mrs.  Tibbs  was  on  the  extreme  verge  of  a  faint- 
ing fit.    "  Hush  !  " 

"  Hush  !  "  exclaimed  Evenson,  at  the  same  moment  to 
Mrs.  Tibbs. 

"There's  somebody  coming  up  stairs,"  said  Agnes  to 
O'Bleary. 

"There's  somebody  comvagdown  stairs,"  whispered  Even* 
son  to  Mrs.  Tibbs. 

"Go  into  the  parlor,  sir,"  said  Agnes  to  her  companion. 
"  You  will  get  there,  before  whoever  it  is,  gets  to  the  top  of 
the  kitchen  stairs." 

"The  drawing-room,  Mrs.  Tibbs  !  "  whispered  the  aston- 
ished Evenson  to  his  equally  astonished  companion  ;  and  for 
the  drawing-room  they  both  made,  plainly  hearing  the  rustling 
of  two  persons,  one  coming  down  stairs,  and  one  coming  up. 

"  What  can  it  be  t  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tibbs.  "  It's  like  a 
dream.    I  wouldn't  be  found  in  this  situation  for  the  world  !  " 

Nor  I,"  returned  Evenson,  who  could  never  bear  a  joke 
at  his  own  expense.    "  Hush  !  here  they  are  at  the  door." 

"  What  fun  !  "  whispered  one  of  the  newcomers. — It  was  * 
Wisbottle. 

"  Glorious !  "  replied  his  companion,  in  an  equally  low 
tone. — This  was  Alfred  Tomkins.  "  Who  would  have  thought 
it  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  so,"  said  Wisbottle,  in  a  most  knowing  whisper. 
"  Lord  bless  you,  he  has  paid  her  most  extraordinary  atten- 
tion for  the  last  two  months.  I  saw  'em  when  I  was  sitting 
at  the  piano  to-night." 

"  Well,  do  you  know  I  didn't  notice  it  ?  "  interrupted 
1  bmkins. 

"Not  notice  it!"  continued  Wisbottle.  "Bless  you;  I 
>!i;aw  him  whispering  to  her,  and  she  crying;  and  then  I'll 


640 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


swear  I  heard  him  say  something  about  to-night  when  we  were 
all  in  bed/' 

"  They're  talking  of  us ! "  exclaimed  the  agonized  Mrs. 
Tibbs,  as  the  painful  suspicion,  and  a  sense  of  their  situation, 
flashed  upon  her  mind. 

I  know  it — I  know  it,"  replied  Evenson,  with  a  melan- 
choly consciousness  that  there  was  no  mode  of  escape. 

"  What's  to  be  done  t  we  cannot  both  stop  here  !"  ejacu- 
lated Mrs.  Tibbs,  in  a  state  of  partial  derangement. 

"  I'll  get  up  the  chimney,"  replied  Evenson,  who  really 
meant  what  he  said. 

"You  can't,"  said  Mrs.  Tibbs,  in  despair.  "  You  can't — 
it's  a  register  stove." 

"  Hush  I  "  repeated  John  Evenson. 

"  Hush — hush  !  "  cried  somebody  down  stairs. 
What  a  d — d  hushing  !  "  said  Alfred  Tomkins,  who  be- 
gan to  get  rather  bewildered. 

"  There  they  are  !  "  exclaimed  the  sapient  Wisbottle,  as  a 
rustling  noise  was  heard  in  the  store-room. 

"  Hark  !  "  whispered  both  the  young  men. 

"  Hark !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Tibbs  and  Evenson. 
Let  me  alone,  sir,"  said  a  female  voice  in  the  store- 
room. 

Oh,  Hagnes  !  "  cried  another  voice,  which  clearly  be- 
longed to  Tibbs,  for  nobody  else  ever  owned  one  like  it. 
"Oh,  Hagnes — lovely  creature  !  " 

"Be  quiet,  sir!  "  (A  bounce.) 

"  Hag—" 

"  Be  quiet,  sir — I  am  ashamed  of  you.  Think  of  your 
wife,  Mr„  Tibbs.    Be  quiet,  sir  !  " 

"  My  wife ! "  exclaimed  the  valorous  Tibbs,  who  was 
clearly  under  the  influence  of  gin-and-water,  and  a  misplaced 
attachment  ^  "  I  ate  her  !  Oh,  Hagnes  !  when  I  was  in  the 
volunteer  corps,  in  eighteen  hundred  and — " 

"  I  declare  I'll  scream.  Be  quiet,  sir,  will  you?"  (An- 
Dther  bounce  and  a  scuffle.) 

"  What's  that  ?  "  exclaimed  Tibbs,  with  a  start. 

"  What's  what  ?  "  said  Agnes,  stopping  short. 

"  Why,  that  !  " 

"  Ah  !  you  have  done  it  nicely  now,  sir,"  sobbed  the  fright- 
ened Agnes,  as  a  tapping  was  heard  at  Mrs.  Tibbs's  bedroom 
door,  which  would  have  beaten  any  dozen  woodpeckers  hol< 
low. 


THE  BOARDING-HOUSE, 


641 


"  Mrs.  Tibbs  !  Mrs.  Tibbs  !  "  called  out  M  rs.  Bloss.  "  Mrs. 
Tibbs,  pray  get  up."  (Here  the  imitation  of  a  woodpecker 
was  resumed  with  tenfold  violence.) 

"  Oh,  dear — dear  !  "  exclaimed  the  wretched  partner  of 
the  depraved  Tibbs.  "  She's  knocking  at  my  door.  We  must 
be  discovered  !    What  will  they  think  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Tibbs  !  Mrs.  Tibbs  !  "  screamed  the  woodpecker 
again, 

"  What's  the  matter  !  "  shouted  Gobler,  bursting  out  of 
the  back  drawing-room,  like  the  dragon  at  Astley's. 

Oh,  Mr.  Gobler !  "  cried  Mrs.  Bloss,  with  a  proper  ap- 
proximation to  hysterics  ;  "  I  think  the  house  is  on  fire,  or 
else  there's  thieves  in  it.  I  have  heard  the  most  dreadful 
noises  1"  f 

The  devil  you  have  !  "  shouted  Gobler  again,  bouncing 
back  into  his  den,  in  happy  imitation  of  the  aforesaid  dragon, 
and  returning  immediately  with  a  lighted  candle.  "  Why, 
what's  this  ?  Wisbottle  !  Tomkins  !  O 'Bleary  !  Agnes  !  What 
the  deuce  !  all  up  and  dressed  ? " 

"  Astonishing  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bloss,  who  had  run  down  stairs 
and  taken  Mr.  Gobler's  arm. 

Call  Mrs.  Tibbs  directly,  somebody,"  said  Gobler,  turn  - 
ing into  the  front  drawing-room. — What !  Mrs.  Tibbs  and 
Mr.  Evenson  ! !  " 

Mrs.  Tibbs  and  Mr.  Evenson  !  "  repeated  everybody,  as 
that  unhappy  pair  were  discovered  :  Mrs.  Tibbs  seated  in  an 
arm-chair  by  the  fireplace,  and  Mr.  Evenson  standing  by  her 
side. 

We  must  leave  the  scene  that  ensued  to  the  reader's 
imagination.  We  could  tell,  how  Mrs.  Tibbs  forthwith  fainted 
away,  and  how  it  required  the  united  strength  of  Mr.  Wisbottle 
and  Mr.  Alfred  Tomkins  to  hold  her  in  her  chair  ;  how  Mr. 
Evenson  explained,  and  how  his  explanation  was  evidently 
disbelieved ;  how  Agnes  repelled  the  accusations  of  Mrs. 
Tibbs  by  proving  that  she  was  negotiating  with  Mr.  O'Bleary 
to  influence  her  mistress's  affections  in  his  behalf ;  and  how 
Mr.  Gobler  threw  a  damp  counterpane  on  the  hopes  of  Mr. 
O'Bleary  by  avowing  that  he  (Gobler)  had  already  proposed 
to,  and  been  accepted  by,  Mrs.  Bloss  ;  how  Agnes  was  dis- 
charged from  that  lady's  service ;  how  Mr.  O'Bleary  dis- 
charged himself  from  Mrs.  Tibbs's  house,  without  going 
through  the  form  of  previously  discharging  his  bill  ;  and  how 
that  disappointed  young  gentleman  rails  against  England  and 


64^ 


SKE  TCHES  B  V  BOZ. 


the  English,  and  vows  there  is  no  virtue  or  fine  feeling  extant, 
except  in  Ireland."  We  repeat  that  we  cotild  X,^\\  all  this, 
but  we  love  to  exercise  our  self-denial,  and  we  therefore  prefer 
leaving  it  to  be  imagined. 

The  lady  whom  we  have  hitherto  described  as  Mrs.  Bloss, 
is  no  more.  Mrs.  Gobler  exists :  Mrs.  Bloss  has  left  us  for 
ever.  In  a  secluded  retreat  in  Newington  Butts,  far,  far  re- 
moved from  the  noisy  strife  of  that  great  boarding-house,  the 
world,  the  enviable  Gobler  and  his  pleasing  wife  revel  in  re- 
tirement :  happy  in  their  complaints,  their  table,  and  their 
medicine  ;  wafted  through  life  by  the  grateful  prayers  of  all 
the  purveyors  of  animal  food  within  three  miles  round. 

We  would  willingly  stop  here,  but  we  have  a  painful  duty 
imposed  upon  us,  which  we  must  discharge.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Tibbs  have  separated  by  mutual  consent,  Mrs.  Tibbs  receiving 
one  moiety  of  43/.  15^-.  10^.,  which  we  before  stated  to  be  the 
amount  of  her  husband's  annual  income,  and  Mr.  Tibbs  the 
other.  He  is  spending  the  evening  of  his  days  in  retirement  ; 
and  he  is  spending  also,  annually,  that  small  but  honorable 
independence.  He  resides  among  the  original  settlers  at 
Walworth  ;  and  it  has  been  stated,  on  unquestionable  authority, 
that  the  conclusion  of  the  volunteer  story  has  been  heard  in  a 
small  tavern  in  that  respectable  neighborhood. 

The  unfortunate  Mrs.  Tibbs  has  determined  to  dispose  of 
the  whole  of  her  furniture  by  public  auction,  and  to  retire 
from  a  residence  in  which  she  has  suffered  so  much.  Mr. 
Robins  has  been  applied  to,  to  conduct  the  sale,  and  the 
transcendent  abilities  of  the  literary  gentlemen  connected 
with  his  establishment  are  now  devoted  to  the  task  of  drawing 
up  the  preliminary  advertisement.  It  is  to  contain,  among  a 
variety  of  brilliant  matter,  seventy-eight  words  in  large  capitals, 
and  six  original  quotations  in  inverted  commas. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MR.  MINNS  AND  HIS  COUSIN. 

Mr.  Augustus  Minns  was  a  bachelor,  of  about  forty  as 
he  said — of  about  eight-and-forty  as  his  friends  said.  He  was 
always  exceedingly  clean,  precise,  and  tidy ;  perhaps  some- 
what priggish,  and  the  most  retiring  man  in  the  world.  He 


MR.  MINNS  AND  HIS  COUSIN,  643 

usually  wore  a  brown  frock-coat  without  a  wrinkle,  light  inex- 
plicables  without  a  spot,  a  neat  neckerchief  with  a  remarkably 
neat  tie,  and  boots  without  a  fault ;  moreover,  he  always 
carried  a  brown  silk  umbrella  with  an  ivory  handle.  He  was 
a  clerk  in  Somerset-house,  or,  as  he  said  himself,  he  held  a 
responsible  situation  under  Government,"  He  had  a  good 
and  increasing  salary,  in  addition  to  some  10,000/.  of  his  own 
(invested  in  the  funds),  and  he  occupied  a  first  floor  in 
Tavistock-street,  Covent-garden,  where  he  had  resided  for 
twenty  years,  having  been  in  the  habit  of  quarrelling  with  his 
landlord  the  whole  time  :  regularly  giving  notice  of  his  inten- 
tion to  quit  on  the  first  day  of  every  quarter,  and  as  regularly 
countermanding  it  on  the  second.  There  were  two  classes  of 
created  objects  which  he  held  in  the  deepest  and  most  un- 
mingled  horror  ?  these  were  dogs,  and  children.  He  was  not 
unamiable,  but  he  could,  any  time,  have  viewed  the  execution 
of  a  dog,  or  the  assassination  of  an  infant,  with  the  liveliest 
satisfaction.  Their  habits  were  at  variance  with  his  love  of 
order ;  and  his  love  of  order  was  as  powerful  as  his  love  of 
life.  Mr.  Augustus  Minns  had  no  relations,  in  or  near  Lon- 
don, with  the  exception  of  his  cousin,  Mr.  Octavius  Budden, 
to  whose  sgn,  whom  he  had  never  seen  (for  he  disliked  the 
father)  he  had  .consented  to  become  godfather  by  proxy.  Mr. 
Budden  having  realized  a  moderate  fortune  by  exercising  the 
trade  or  calling  of  a  corn-chandler,  and  having  a  great  pre- 
dilection for  the  country,  had  purchased  a  cottage  in  the 
vicinity  of  Stamford-hill,  whither  he  retired  with  the  wife  of  his 
bosom,  and  his  only  son,  Master  Alexander  Augustus  Budden. 
One  evening,  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  B.  were  admiring  their  son, 
discussing  his  various  merits,  talking  over  his  education,  and 
disputing  whether  the  classics  should  be  made  an  essential 
part  thereof,  the  lady  pressed  so  strongly  upon  her  husband 
the  propriety  of  cultivating  the  friendship  of  Mr.  Minns  in  be- 
half of  their  son,  that  Mr.  Budden  at  last  made  up  his  mind, 
that  it  should  not  be  his  fault  if  he  and  his  cousin  were  not  in 
future  more  intimate. 

I'll  break  the  ice,  m'y  love,"  said  Mr.  Budden,  stirring  up 
the  sugar  at  the  bottom  of  his  glass  of  brandy-and-water,  and 
casting  a  sidelong  look  at  his  spouse  to  see  the  effect  of  the 
announcement  of  his  determination,  "by  asking  Minns  down 
to  dine  with  us,  on  Sunday." 

"  Then,  pray  Budden  write  to  your  cousin  at  once,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Budden.    "  Who  knows,  if  we  could  only  get  him 


644 


SKETCHES  BY  DOZ. 


down  here,  but  he  might  take  a  fancy  to  our  Alexander,  and 
leave  him  his  property  ? — Alick,  my  dear,  take  your  legs  off 
the  rail  of  the  chair  !  " 

"  Very  true,"  said  Mr.  Budden,  musing,  "  very  true  indeed, 
my  love  !  " 

On  the  following  morning,  as  Mr.  Minns  was  sitting  at  his 
breakfast-table,  alternately  biting  his  dry  toast  and  casting  a 
look  upon  the  columns  of  his  morning  paper,  which  he  always 
read  from  the  title  to  the  printer's  name,  he  heard  a  loud 
knock  at  the  street-door ;  which  was  shortly  afterwards  fol- 
lowed by  the  entrance  of  his  servant,  who  put  into  his  hand  a 
particularly  small  card,  on  which  was  engraven  in  immense 
letters,  "  Mr.  Octavius  Budden,  Amelia  Cottage  (Mrs.  B.'s 
name  was  Amelia),  Poplar-walk,  Stamford-hill." 

Budden  ! "  ejaculated  Minns,  ^' what  can  bring  that 
vulgar  man  here  ! — say  I'm  asleep — say  I'm  out,  and  shall 
never  be  home  again — anything  to  keep  him  down  stairs." 

"  But  please,  sir,  the  gentleman's  coming  up,"  replied  the 
servant,  and  the  fact  was  made  evident,  by  an  appalling 
creaking  of  boots  on  the  staircase  accompanied  by  a  pat- 
tering noise  ;  the  cause  of  which,  Minns  could  not,  for  the  life 
of  him  divine. 

"  Hem — show  the  gentleman  in,"  said  the  unfortunate 
bachelor.  Exit  servant,  and  enter  Octavius  preceded  by  a 
large  white  dog,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  fleecy  hosiery,  with  pink 
eyes,  large  ears,  and  no  perceptible  tail. 

The  cause  of  the  pattering  on  the  stairs  was  but  too  plain. 
Mr.  Augustus  Minns  staggered  beneath  the  shock  of  the  dog's 
appearance. 

My  dear  fellow,  how  are  you  ?  "  said  Budden,  as  he 
entered. 

He  always  spoke  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  and  always  said 
the  same  thing  half-a-dozen  times. 
How  are  you,  my  hearty  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Budden  ? — pray  take  a  chair  !  " 
politely  stammered  the  discomfited  Minns. 

"  Thank  you — thank  you — well — how  are  you,  eh  ?  " 
Uncommonly  well,  thank  you,"  said  Minns,  casting  a 
diabolical  look  at  the  dog,  who,  with  his  hind  legs  on  the  floor, 
and  his  fore  paws  resting  on  the  table,  was  dragging  a  bit  of 
bread  and  butter  out  of  a  plate,  preparatory  to  devouring  it, 
with  the  buttered  side  next  the  carpet. 

"  Ah,  you  rogue  !  "  said  Budden  to  his  dog  ;  "  you  see, 


MR.  MINNS  AND  HIS  COUSIN. 


64S 


Minns,  he's  like  me,  always  at  home,  eh,  my  boy  ? — Egad,  I'm 
precious  hot  and  hungry!  I've  walked  all  the  way  from 
Stamford-hill  this  morning." 

"  Have  you  breakfasted  ?  "  inquired  Minns. 

"  Oh,  no  ! — came  to  breakfast  with  you  ;  so  ring  the  bell,  my 
dear  fellow,  will  you  ?  and  let's  have  another  cup  and  saucer, 
and  the  cold  ham. — Make  myself  at  home,  you  see  !  "  con- 
tinued Budden,  dusting  his  boots  with  a  table-napkin.  "  Ha  ! 
— ^ha  ! — ha  !— 'pon  my  life,  I'm  hungry." 

Minns  rang  the  bell,  and  tried  to  smile. 

"  I  decidedly  never  was  so  hot  in  my  life,"  continued 
Octavius,  wiping  his  forehead ;  ^'  well,  but  how  are  you, 
Minns  }    'Pon  my  soul,  you  wear  capitally  !  " 

"  D'ye  think  so  1  "  said  Minns  ;  and  he  tried  another 
smile. 

"  'Pon  my  life,  I  do  !  " 

"  Mrs.  B.  and — what's  his  name — quite  well  ?  " 

"  Alick — my  son,  you  mean  ;  never  better — never  better. 
But  at  such  a  place  as  we've  got  at  Poplar-walk,  you  know, 
he  couldn't  be  ill  if  he  tried.  When  I  first  saw  it,  by  Jove  ! 
it  looked  so  knowing,  with  the  front  garden,  and  the  green 
railings,  and  the  brass  knocker,  and  all  that — I  really  thought 
it  was  a  cut  above  me." 

"  Don't  you  think  you'd  like  the  ham  better,"  interrupted 
Minns,  if  you  cut  it  the  other  way  ?  "  He  saw,  with  feelings 
which  it  is  impossible  to  describe,  that  his  visitor  was  cutting 
or  rather  maiming  the  ham,  in  utter  violation  of  all  established 
rules. 

"  No,  thank  ye,"  returned  Budden,  with  the  most  bar- 
barous indifference  to  crime,  I  prefer  it  this  way,  it  eats 
short.  But  I  say,  Minns,  when  will  you  come  down  and  see 
us  t  You  will  be  delighted  with  the  place  ;  I  know  you  will. 
Amelia  and  I  were  talking  about  you  the  other  night,  and 
Amelia  said — another  lump  of  sugar,  please  \  thank  ye — she 
said,  don't  you  think  you  could  contrive,  my  dear,  to  say  to 
Mr.  Minns,  in  a  friendly  way — come  down,  sir — damn  the 
dog  !  he's  spoiling  your  curtains,  Minns — ha  ! — ha  ! — ha  !  " 
Minns  leaped  from  his  seat  as  though  he  had  received  the 
discharge  from  a  galvanic  battery. 

^'  Come  out,  sir ! — go  out,  hoo  ? "  cried  poor  Augustus, 
keeping  nevertheless,  at  a  very  respectful  distance  from  the 
dog  ;  having  read  of  a  case  of  hydrophobia  in  the  paper  of 
that  morning.    By  dint  of  great  exertion,  much  shouting,  and 


646 


SKETCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 


a  marvellous  deal  of  poking  under  the  tables  with  a  stick  and 
umbrella,  the  dog  was  at  last  dislodged,  and  placed  on  the 
landing  outside  the  door,  where  he  immedia'tely  commenced 
a  most  appalling  howling ;  at  the  same  tim.e  vehemently 
scratching  the  paint  off  the  two  nicely-varnished  bottom 
panels,  until  they  resembled  the  interior  of  a  back-gammon- 
board. 

A  good  dog  for  the  country  that !  "  coolly  observed 
Budden  to  the  distracted  Minns,  but  he's  not  much  used  to 
confinement.  But  now,  Minns,  when  will  you  come  down  ? 
I'll  take  no  denial,  positively.  Let's  see,  to-day's  Thursday. 
— Will  you  come  on  Sunday  ?  We  dine  at  five,  don't  say  no 
—do." 

After  a  great  deal  of  pressing,  Mr.  Augustus  Minns, 
driven  to  despair,  accepted  the  invitation,  and  promised  to  be 
at  Poplar-walk  on  the  ensuing  Sunday,  at  a  quarter  before  five 
to  the  minute. 

"  Now  mind  the  direction,"  said  Budden  :  the  coach  goes 
from  the  Flower-pot,  in  Bishopsgate-street,  every  half  hour. 
When  the  coach  stops  at  the  Swan,  you'll  see,  immediately 
opposite  you,  a  white  house." 

"  Which  is  your  house — I  understand,"  said  Minns, 
wishing  to  cut  short  the  visit,  and  the  story,  at  the  same 
time. 

No,  no,  that's  not  mine ;  that's  Grogus's,  the  great  iron- 
monger's. I  was  going  to  say — you  turn  down  by  the  side  of 
the  white  house  till  you  can't  go  another  step  further — mind 
that  1 — and  then  you  turn  to  your  right,  by  some  stables — • 
well ;  close  to  you,  you'll  see  a  wall  with  *  Beware  of  the  Dog ' 
written  on  it  in  large  letters — (Minns  shuddered) — go  along 
by  the  side  of  that  wall  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile — and 
anybody  will  show  you  which  is  my  place." 

"  Very  well — thank  ye — good-by." 

"Be  punctual." 

"  Certainly  ;  good-morning." 

"  I  say,  Minns,  you've  got  a  card." 

"  Yes,  I  have  ;  thank  ye."  And  Mr.  Octavius  Budden 
departed  leaving  his  cousin  looking  forward  to  his  visit  on  the 
following  Sunday,  with  the  feelings  of  a  penniless  poet  to  the 
weekly  visit  of  his  Scotch  landlady. 

Sunday  arrived  ;  the  sky  was  bright  and  clear  ;  crowds  of 
people  were  hurrying  along  the  streets,  intent  on  their 
different  schemes  of  pleasure  for  the  day ;  everything  and 


MR.  MINNS  AND  HIS  COUSIN. 


647 


everybody  looked  cheerful  and  happy  except  Mr.  Augustus 
Minns. 

The  day  was  fine,  but  the  heat  was  considerable  ;  when 
Mr.  Minns  had  fagged  up  the  shady  side  of  Fleet-street, 
Cheapside,  and  Threadneedie-street,  he  had  become  pretty 
warm,  tolerably  dusty,  and  it  was  getting  late  into  the  bargain. 
By  the  most  extraordinary  good  fortune,  however,  a  coach 
was  waiting  at  the  Flower-pot,  into  which  Mr.  Augustus 
Minns  got,  on  the  solemn  assurance  of  the  cad  that  the 
vehicle  would  start  in  three  minutes — that  being  the  very  ut- 
most extremity  of  time  it  was  allowed  to  wait  by  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment. A  quarter  of  an  hour  elapsed,  and  there  were  no  signs 
of  moving.    Minns  looked  at  his  watch  for  the  sixth  time. 

"  Coachman,  are  you  going  or  not  ? bawled  Mr.  Minns, 
with  his  head  and  half  his  body  out  of  the  coach-window. 

"  Di — rectly,  sir,*'  said  the  coachman,  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  looking  as  much  unlike  a  man  in  a  hurry  as 
possible. 

"  Bill,  take  them  cloths  off.''  Five  minutes  more  elapsed  : 
at  the  end  of  which  time  the  coachman  mounted  the  box, 
from  whence  he  looked  down  the  street,  and  up  the  street, 
and  hailed  all  the  pedestrians  for  another  five  minutes. 

"  Coachman  !  if  you  don't  go  this  moment,  I  shall  get 
out,"  said  Mr.  Minns,  rendered  desperate  by  the  lateness  of 
the  hour,  and  the  impossibility  of  being  in  Poplar-walk  at  the 
appointed  time. 

"Going  this  minute,  sir,"  was  the  reply; — and,  accord- 
ingly, the  machine  trundled  on  for  a  couple  of  hundred  yards, 
and  then  stopped  again.  Minns  doubled  himself  up  in  a 
corner  of  the  coach,  and  abandoned  himself  to  his  fate,  as  a 
child,  a  mother,  a  bandbox  and  a  parasol,  became  his  fellow 
passengers. 

The  child  was  an  affectionate  and  an  amiable  infant ;  the 
Httle  dear  mistook  Minns  for  his  other  parent,  and  screamed 
to  embrace  him. 

"  Be  quiet,  dear,"  said  the  mamma,  restraining  the  impet- 
uosity of  her  darling,  whose  little  fat  legs  were  kicking,  and 
stamping,  and  twining  themselves  into  the  most  complicated 
forms,  in  an  ecstasy  of  impatience.  "  Be  quiet,  dear,  that's 
not  your  papa." 

"  Thank  Heaven  I  am  not !  "  thought  Minns,  as  the  first 
gleam  of  pleasure  he  had  experienced  that  morning  shone  like 
a  meteor  throusfh  his  wretchedness. 

28 


648 


SKETCHES  BY  DOZ. 


Playfulness  was  agreeably  mingled  with  affection  in  the 
disposition  of  the  boy.  When  satisfied  that  Mr.  Minns  was 
not  his  parent,  he  endeavored  to  attract  his  notice  by  scraping 
his  drab  trousers  with  his  dirty  shoes,  poking  his  chest  with 
his  mamma's  parasol,  and  other  nameless  endearments  pecu- 
liar to  infancy,  with  which  he  beguiled  the  tediousness  of  the 
ride,  apparently  very  much  to  his  own  satisfaction. 

When  the  unfortunate  gentleman  arrived  at  the  Swan,  he 
found  to  his  great  dismay,  that  it  was  a  quarter  past  five.  The 
white  house,  the  stables,  the  "'Beware  of  the  Dog," — every 
landmark  was  passed,  with  a  rapidity  not  unusual  to  a  gentle- 
man of  a  certain  age  when  too  late  for  dinner.  After  the 
lapse  of  a  few  minutes,  Mr.  Minns  found  himself  opposite  a 
yellow  brick  house  with  a  green  door,  brass  knocker,  and 
door-plate,  green  window-frames  and  ditto  railings,  with  "  a 
garden  in  front,  that  is  to  say,  a  small  loose  bit  of  gravelled 
ground,  with  one  round  and  two  scalene  triangular  beds,  con- 
taining a  fir-tree,  twenty  or  thirty  bulbs,  and  an  unlimited 
number  of  marigolds.  The  taste  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Budden 
was  further  displayed  by  the  appearance  of  a  Cupid  on  each 
side  of  the  door,  perched  upon  a  heap  of  large  chalk  flints, 
variegated  with  pink  conch-shells.  His  knock  at  the  door 
was  answered  by  a  stumpy  boy,  in  drab  livery,  cotton  stock- 
ings and  high-lows,  who,  after  hanging  his  hat  on  one  of  the 
dozen  brass  pegs  which  ornamented  the  passage,  denominated 
by  courtesy  "  The  Hall,"  ushered  him  into  a  front  drawing- 
room  commanding  a  very  extensive  view  of  the  backs  of  the 
neighboring  houses.  The  usual  ceremony  of  introduction, 
and  so  forth,  over,  Mr,  Minns  took  his  seat ;  not  a  little 
agitated  at  finding  that  he  was  the  last  comer,  and,  somehow 
or  other  the  Lion  of  about  a  dozen  people,  sitting  together  in 
a  small  drawing-room,  getting  rid  of  that  most  tedious  of  all 
time,  the  time  preceding  dinner, 

"Well,  Brogson,"  said  Budden,  addressing  an  elderly  gen- 
tleman in  a  black  coat,  drab  knee-breeches,  and  long  gaiters, 
who,  under  pretence  of  inspecting  the  prints  in  an  Annual, 
had  been  engaged  in  satisfying  himself  on  the  subject  of  Mr. 
Minus's  general  appearance,  by  looking  at  him  over  the  tops 
of  the  leaves — "  Well,  Brogspn,  what  do  Ministers  mean  to 
do  ?    Will  they  go  out,  or  what  ?  " 

"  Oh — why — really,  you  know,  I'm  the  last  person  in  the 
world  to  ask  for  news.  Your  cousin,  from  his  situation,  is  the 
most  likely  person  to  answer  the  question," 


MR.  MINNS  AND  HIS  COUSIN 


649 


Mr.  Minns  assured  the  last  speaker,  that  although  he  was 
in  Somerset-house,  he  possessed  no  official  communication 
relative  to  the  projects  of  his  Majesty's  Ministers.  But  his 
remark  was  evidently  received  incredulously ;  and  no  further 
conjectures  being  hazarded  on  the  subject,  a  long  pause  en- 
sued, during  which  the  company  occupied  themselves  in 
coughing  and  blowing  their  noses,  until  the  entrance  of  Mrs. 
Budden  caused  a  general  rise. 

The  ceremony  of  introduction  being  over,  dinner  was  an- 
nounced,  and  down  stairs  the  party  proceeded  accordingly — 
Mr.  Minns  escorting  Mrs.  Budden  as  far  as  the  drawing-room 
door,  but  being  prevented,  by  the  narrowness  of  the  stair- 
case, from  extending  his  gallantry  any  farther.  The  dinner 
passed  off  as  such  dinner^  usually  do.  Ever  and  anon, 
amidst  the  clatter  of  knives  and  forks,  and  the  hum  of  con- 
versation, Mr,  B.'s  voice  might  be  heard,  asking  a  friend  to 
take  wine,  and  assuring  him  he  was  glad  to  see  him  ;  and  a 
great  deal  of  by-play  took  place  between  Mrs.  B.  and  the 
servants,  respecting  the  removal  of  the  dishes,  during  which 
her  countenance  assumed  all  the  variations  of  a  weather-glass, 
from    stormy  "  to    set  fair." 

Upon  the  dessert  and  wine  being  placed  on  the  table,  the 
servant,  in  compliance  with  a  significant  look  from  Mrs.  B., 
brought  down  "  Master  Alexander,"  habited  in  a  sky-blue  suit 
with  silver  buttons  ;  and  possessing  hair  of  nearly  the  same 
color  as  the  metal.  After  sundry  praises  from  his  mother,  and 
various  admonitions  as  to  his  behavior  from  his  father,  he  was 
introduced  to  his  godfather. 

Well,  my  little  fellow — you  are  a  fine  boy,  ain't  you  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Minns,  as  happy  as  a  tomtit  on  birdline. 

"Yes." 

"  How  old  are  you  t  " 

"  Eight,  next  We'nsday.    How  old  are  you  ?  '' 
"Alexander,"  interrupted  his  mother,  "hnw  dare  you  ask 
Mr.  Minns  how  old  he  is  !  " 

"  He  asked  me  how  old  /  was,"  said  the  precocious  child^ 
to  whom  Minns  had  from  that  moment  internally  resolved 
that  he  never  would  bequeath  one  shilling.  As  soon  as  the 
titter  occasioned  by  the  observation,  had  subsided,  a  little 
smirking  man  with  red  whiskers,  sitting  at  the  bottom  of  the 
table,  who  during  the  whole  of  dinner  had  been  endeavoring 
to  obtain  a  listener  to  some  stories  about  Sheridan,  called  out, 
with  a  very  patronizing  air,    Alick,  v/hat  part  of  speech  is  beJ^ 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ 


"  A  verb." 

"That's  a  good  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Budden,  with  all  a 
mother's  pride.    ^'  Now,  you  know  what  a  verb  is  ? " 

"  A  verb  is  a  word  which  signifies  to  be,  to  do,  or  to  suf- 
fer j  as,  I  am — I  rule — I  am  ruled.    Give  me  an  apple,  Ma." 

"  I'll  give  you  an  apple,  replied  the  man  with  the  red 
whiskers,  who  was  an  established  friend  of  the  family,  or  in 
other  words  was  always  invited  by  Mrs  Budden,  whether  Mr. 
Budden  liked  it  or  not,  "  if  you'll  tell  me  what  is  the  mean- 
ing of  be.'^ 

"Be?"  said  the  prodigy,  after  a  little  hesitation — "an 
insect  that  gathers  honey." 

"  No,  dear,"  frowned  Mrs.  Budden  ;  "  B  double  E  is  the 
substantive." 

"  I  don't  think  he  knows  much  yet  about  coinmon  substan- 
tives," said  the  smirking  gentleman,  who  thought  this  an 
admirable  opportunity  for  letting  off  a  joke.  "  It's  clear  he's 
not  very  well  acquainted  with  proper  names.    He  !  he  !  he  !  " 

"  Gentlemen,"  called  out  Mr.  Budden  from  the  end  of  the 
table,  in  a  stentorian  voice,  and  with  a  very  important  air, 
"  will  you  have  the  goodness  to  charge  your  glasses  ?  I  have 
a  toast  to  propose." 

"Hear!  hear!"  cried  the  gentlemen,  passing  the  de- 
canters. After  they  had  made  the  round  of  the  table,  Mr. 
Budden  proceeded — "  Gentlemen  ;  there  is  an  individual 
present — " 

"  Hear  1  hear  !"  said  the  little  man  with  red  whiskers. 
Pray  be  quiet,  Jones,"  remonstrated  Budden. 

"  I  say,  gentlemen,  there  is  an  individual  present,"  re- 
sumed the  host,  "  in  whose  society,  I  am  sure' we  must  take 
great  delight — and — and — the  conversation  of  that  individual 
must  have  afforded  to  every  one  present,  the  utmost  pleas- 
ure." ["  Thank  Heaven,  he  does  not  mean  me  !  "  thought 
Minns,  conscious  that  his  diffidence  and  exclusiveness  had 
prevented  his  saying  above  a  dozen  words  since  he  entered 
the  house.]  "Gentlemen,  1  am  but  a  humble  individual 
myself,  and  I  perhaps  ought  to  apologize  for  allowing  any 
individual  feelings  of  friendship  and  affection  for  the  person 
I  allude  to,  to  induce  me  to  venture  to  rise,  to  propose  .the 
health  of  that  person — a  person  that,  I  am  sure — that  is  to 
say,  a  person  whose  virtues  must  endear  him  to  those  who 
know  him — and  those  who  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing 
him,  cannot  dislike  him." 


MR.  MINNS  AND  HIS  COUSIN 


651 


"  Hear !  hear !  "  said  the  company,  in  a  tone  ot  encour* 
agement  and  aiDproval. 

"  Gentlemen,"  continued  Budden,  "  my  cousin  is  a  man 
who — who  is  a  relation  of  my  own."  (Hear  !  hear  !)  Minns 
groaned  audibly.  "Who  I  am  most  happy  to  see  here,  and 
who,  if  he  were  not  here,  would  certainly  have  deprived  us 
of  the  great  pleasure  we  all  feel  in  seeing  him.  (Loud  cries 
of  hear !)  Gentlemen,  I  feel  that  I  have  already  trespassed 
on  your  attention  for  too  long  a  time.  With  every  feeling — 
of — with  every  sentiment  of — of — " 

"  Gratification  " — suggested  the  friend  of  the  family. 

" — Of  gratification,  I  beg  to  propose  the  health  of  Mr. 
Minns." 

"  Standing,  gentlemen  !  "  shouted  the  indefatigable  little 
man  with  the  whiskers — "  and  with  the  honors.  Take  your 
time  from  me,  if  you  please.  Hip  !  hip  !  hip  ! — Za  ! — Hip  ! 
hip!  hip  !— Za  !— Hip  !  hip  !— Za— a— a  1 " 

All  eyes  were  now  fixed  on  the  subject  of  the  toast,  who 
by  gulping  down  port  wine  at  the  imminent  hazard  of  suffo- 
cation, endeavored  to  conceal  his  confusion.  After  as  long 
a  pause  as  decency  would  admit,  he  rose,  but,  as  the  news- 
papers sometimes  say  in  their  reports,  "we  regret  that  we  are 
quite  unable  to  give  even  the  substance  of  the  honorable 
gentlemen's  observations."  The  words  "  present  company — 
honor — present  occasion,"  and  "great  happiness" — heard 
occasionally,  and  repeated  at  intervals,  with  a  countenance 
expressive  of  the  utmost  confusion  and  misery,  convinced  the 
company  that  he  was  making  an  excellent  speech  ;  and,  ac- 
cordingly, on  his  resuming  his  seat,  they  cried  "  Bravo  !  "  and 
manifested  tumultuous  applause.  Jones,  who  had  been  long 
watching  his  opportunity,  then  darted  up. 

"  Budden,"  said  he,  "  will  you  allow  me  to  propose  a 
toast  ? " 

"(Certainly,"  replied  Budden,  adding  in  an  undertone  to 
Minns  right  across  the  table.  "  Devilish  sharp  fellow  that  : 
you'll  be  very  much  pleased  with  his  speech.  He  talks 
equally  well  on  any  subject,"  Minns  bowed,  and  Mr.  Jones 
proceeded : 

It  has  on  several  occasions,  in  various  instances,  under 
many  circamstances,  and  in  different  companies,  fallen  to  my 
lot  to  propose  a  toast  to  those  by  whom,  at  the  time,  I  have 
had  the  honor  to  be  surrounded.  I  have  sometimes,  I  will 
cheerfully  own — for  why  should  I  deny  it  ? — felt  the  over 


652 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 


whelming  nature  of  the  task  I  have  undertaken,  and  my  own 
utter  incapability  to  do  justice  to  the  subject.  If  such  have 
been  my  feelings,  however,  on  former  occasions,  what  must 
they  be  now — now — under  the  extraordinary  circumstances 
in  which  I  am  placed.  (Hear !  hear !)  To  describe  my 
feelings  accurately,  would  be  impossible  ;  but  I  cannot  give 
*  you  a  better  idea  of  them,  gentlemen,  than  by  refernng  to  a 
circumstance  whicK  happens,  oddly  enough,  to  occur  to  my 
mind  at  the  moment.  On  one  occasion,  when  that  truly  great 
and  illustrious  map,  Sheridan,  was — " 

Now,  there  is  no  knowing  what  new  villainy  in  the  form  of 
a  joke  would  have  been  heaped  on  the  grave  of  that  very  ill- 
used  man,  Mr.  Sheridan,  if  the  boy  in  drab  had  not  at  that 
moment  entered  the  room  in  a  breathless  state,  to  report, 
that,  as  it  was  a  very  wet  night,  the  nine  o'clock  stage  had 
come  round,  to  know  whether  there  was  anybody  going  to 
town,  as,  in  that  case^  he  (the  nine  o'clock)  had  room  for  one 
inside. 

Mr.  Minns  starlerl  up  ;  and,  despite  countless  exclama- 
tions of  surprise,  and  entreaties  to  stay,  persisted  in  his  de- 
termination to  acc(?pt  the  vacant  place.  But,  the  brown  silk 
umbrella  was  nowhce  to  be  found  ;  and  as  the  coachman 
couldn't  wait,  he  drove  back  to  the  Swan,  leaving  word  for 
Mr.  Minns  to  run  round  "  and  catch  him.  However,  as  it 
did  not  occur  to  Mr.  Minns  for  some  ten  minutes  or  so,  that 
he  had  left  the  brown  silk  umbrella  with  the  ivory  handle  in 
the  other  coach,  coming  down  ;  and,  moreover,  as  he  was  by 
no  means  remarkable  for  speed,  it  is  no  matter  of  surprise 
that  when  he  accomplished  the  feat  of  "  running  round  "  to 
the  Swan,  the  coach — the  last  coach — had  gone  without  him. 

It  was  somewhere  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
when  Mr.  Augustus  Minns  knocked  feebly  at  the  street-door 
of  his  lodgings  in  Tavistock-street,  cold,  wet,  cross,  and  mis- 
erable. He  made  his  will  next  morning,  and  his  professional 
man  informs  us,  in  that  strict  confidence  ii?  which  we  inform 
the  public,  that  neither  the  name  of  Mr.  Octavius  Puddea 
nor  of  Mrs.  Amelia  Budden,  nor  oi  Master  Alexander  Augus 
tus  Budden,  appeared  therein. 


SENTIMENT, 


653 


CHAPTER  IIL 

SENTIMENT. 

The  Miss  Crumptons,  or  to  quote  the  authority  of  the 
inscription  on  the  garden-gate  of  Minerva  House,  Hammer- 
smith, "The  Misses  Crumpton,"  were  two  unusually  tall, 
particularly  thin,  and  exceedingly  skinny  personages  :  very 
upright,  and  very  yellow.  Miss  Amelia  Crumpton  owned  to 
thirty-eight,  and  Miss  Maria  Crumpton  admitted  she  was 
forty  ;  an  admission  which  was  rendered  perfectly  unnecessary 
by  the  self-evident  fact  of  her  being  at  least  fifty.  They 
dressed  in  the  most  interesting  manner — like  twins  !  and 
looked  as  happy  and  comfortable  as  a  couple  of  marigolds 
run  to  seed.  They  were  very  precise,  had  the  strictest  pos- 
sible ideas  of  propriety,  wore  false  hair,  and  always  smelt 
very  strongly  of  lavender. 

Minerva  H^ouse,  conducted  under  the  auspices  of  the  two 
sisters,  was  a  "  finishing  establishment  for  young  ladies," 
where  some  twenty  girls  of  the  ages  of  from  thirteen  to  nine- 
teen inclusive,  acquired  a  smattering  of  everything,  and  a 
knowledge  of  nothing;  instruction  in  French  and  Italian, 
dancing  lessons  twice  a-week ;  and  other  necessaries  of  Hfe. 
The  house  was  a  white  one,  a  little  removed  from  the  road- 
side, with  close  palings  in  front.  The  bed-room  windows 
were  always  left  partly  open,  to  afford  a  bird's-eye  view  of 
numerous  little  bedsteads  with  very  white  dimity  furniture, 
and  thereby  impress  the  passer-by  with  a  due  sense  of  the 
luxuries  of  the  establishment ;  and  there  was  a  front  parlor 
hung  round  with  highly  varnished  maps  which  nobody  ever 
looked  at,  and  filled  with  books  which  no  one  ever  read, 
appropriated  exclusively  to  the  reception  of  parents,  who, 
whenever  they  called,  could  not  fail  to  be  struck  with  the 
very  deep  appearance  of  the  place. 

"  Amelia,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Maria  Crumpton,  entering 
the  school-room  one  morning,  with  her  false  hair  in  papers  : 
as  she  occasionally  did,  in  order  to  impress  the  young  ladies 
with  a  conviction  of  its  reality.  "  Amelia,  my  dear,  here  is  a 
post  grati.f3dng  note  I  have  just  received.  You  needn't  mind 
readirig'it  aioild.'^^ 


^54 


SKETCHES  nv  noz. 


Miss  Amelia,  thus  advised,  proceeded  to  read  the  follow 
ing  note  with  an  air  of  great  triumph  : 

"Cornelius  Brook  Dingwall,  Esq.,  M.P.,  presents  his  com- 
pliments to  Miss  Crumpton,  and  will  feel  much  obliged  by 
Miss  Crumpton's  calling  on  him,  if  she  conveniently  can,  to- 
morrow morning  at  one  o'clock,  as  Cornelius  Brook  Dingwall, 
Esq.,  M.P.,  is  anxious  to  see  Miss  Crumpton  on  the  subject  of 
placing  Miss  Brook  Dingwall  under  her  charge. 

"  Adelphi." 

"  Monday  morning." 

A  Member  of  Parliament's  daughter  !  "  ejaculated  Amelia, 
in  an  ecstatic  tone. 

A  Member  of  Parliament's  daughter !  "  repeated  Miss 
Maria,  with  a  smile  of  delight,  which,  of  course,  elicited  a  con- 
current titter  of  pleasure  from  all  the  young  ladies. 

"  It's  exceedingly  delightful  !  "  said  Miss  Amelia  ;  where 
upon  all  the  young  ladies  murmured  their  admiration  again 
Courtiers  are  but  school-boys,  and  court-ladies  school-girls. 

So  important  an  announcement,  at  once  superseded  the 
business  of  the  day.  A  holiday  was  declared,  in  commemora- 
tion of  the  great  event ;  the  Miss  Crumptons  retired  to  their 
private  apartment  to  talk  it  over  ;  the  smaller  girls  discussed 
the  probable  manners  and  customs  of  the  daughter  of  a  Mem- 
ber of  Parliament ;  and  the  young  ladies  verging  on  eighteen 
wondered  whether  she  was  engaged,  whether  she  was  pretty, 
whether  she  wore  much  bustle,  and  many  other  ivheihers  of 
equal  importance. 

The  two  Miss  Crumptons  proceeded  to  the  Adelphi  at  the 
appointed  time  next  day,  dressed,  of  course,  in  their  best  style, 
and  looking  as  amiable  as  they  possibly  could — which,  by  the 
bye,  is  not  saying  much  for  them.  Having  sent  in  their  cards, 
through  the  medium  of  a  red-hot  looking  footman  in  bright 
livery,  they  were  ushered  into  the  august  presence  of  the  pro- 
found Dingwall. 

Cornelius  Brook  Dingwall,  Esq.,  M.P.,  was  very  haughty, 
solemn,  and  portentous.  He  had,  naturally,  a  somewhat  spas- 
modic expression  of  countenance,  which  was  not  rendered  the 
less  remarkable  by  his  wearing  an  extremely  stiff  cravat.  He 
was  wonderfully  proud  of  the  M.P.  attached  to  his  name,  and 
never  lost  an  opportunity  of  reminding  people  of  his  dignity. 
He  had  a  great  idea  of  his  own  abilities,  which  must  have  been 


SENTIMENT, 


a  great  comfort  to  him,  as  no  one  else  had  ;  and  in  diplomacy, 
on  a  small  scale,  in  his  own  family  arrangements,  he  considered 
Iiimself  unrivalled.  He  was  a  county  magistrate,  and  dis- 
charged the  duties  of  his  station  with  all  due  justice  and  im- 
partiality ;  frequently  committing  poachers,  and  occasionally 
committing  himself.  Miss  Brook  Dingwall  Avas  one  of  that 
numerous  class  of  young  ladies,  who,  like  adverbs,  may  be 
known  by  their  answering  to  a  commonplace  question,  and 
doing  nothing  else. 

On  the  present  occasion,  this  talented  individual  was 
seated  in  a  small  library  at  a  table  covered  with  papers,  doing 
nothing,  but  trying  to  look  busy — playing  at  shop.  Acts  of 
Parliament,  and  letters  directed  to  Cornelius  Brook  Ding 
wall,  Esq.,  M.  P.,''  were  ostentatiously  scattered  over  the 
table  ;  at  a  little  distance  from  which,  Mrs.  Brook  Dingwall 
was  seated  at  work.  One  of  those  public  nuisances,  a  spoiled 
child,  was  playing  about  the  room,  dressed  after  the  most  ap- 
proved fashion — in  a  blue  tunic  with  a  black  belt  a  quarter  of 
a  yard  wide,  fastened  with  an  immense  buckle — looking  like  a 
robber  in  a  melodrama,  seen  through  a  diminishing  glass. 

After  a  little  pleasantry  from  the  sweet  child,  who  amused 
himself  by  running  away  with  Miss  Maria  Crumpton's  chair 
as  fast  as  it  was  placed  for  her,  the  visitors  were  seated,  and 
Cornelius  Brook  Dingw^all,  Esq.,  opened  the  conversation. 

He  had  sent  for  Miss  Crumpton,  he  said,  in  consequence  of 
the  high  character  he  had  received  of  her  establishment  from 
his  friend.  Sir  Alfred  Muggs. 

Miss  Crumpton  murmured  her  acknowledgments  to  him 
(Muggs),  and  Cornelius  proceeded. 

One  of  my  principal  reasons.  Miss  Crumpton,  for  parting 
with  my  daughter,  is,  that  she  has  lately  acquired  some  senti- 
mental ideas,  w^hich  it  is  most  desirable  to  eradicate  from  her 
young  mind."  (Here  the  little  innocent  before  noticed,  fell 
out  of  an  arm-chair  with  an  awful  crash.) 

"  Naughty  boy !  said  his  mamma,  who  appeared  more 
surprised  at  his  taking  the  liberty  of  falling  down  than  at  any- 
thing else ;     I'll  ring  the  bell  for  James  to  take  him  away." 

"  Pray  don't  check  him,  my  love,"  said  the  diplomatist,  as 
soon  as  he  could  make  himself  heard  amidst  the  unearthly 
howling  consequent  upon  the  threat  and  the  tumble.  It  all 
arises  from  his  great  flow  of  spirits."  This  last  explanation 
was  addressed  to  Miss  Crumpton. 

'  •  Certainly,  sir,"  replied  the  antique  Maria  :  not  exactly 


6s6  . 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


seeing,  however,  the  connection  between  a  flow  of  animal 
spirits,  and  a  fall  from  an  arm-chair. 

Silence  was  restored,  and  the  M.P.  resumed  :  ^'  Now,  I 
know  nothing  so  likely  to  effect  this  object,  Miss  Crmnpton, 
as  her  mixing  constantly  in  the  society  of  girls  of  her  own  age  ; 
and,  as  I  know  that  in  your  establishment  she  will  meet  such 
as  are  not  likely  to  contaminate  her  young  mind,  I  propose  to 
send  her  to  you/' 

The  youngest  Miss  Crumpton  expressed  the  acknowl- 
edgments  of  the  establishment  generally.  Maria  was  rendered 
speechless  by  bodil)^  pain.  The  dear  little  fellow,  having  re- 
covered his  animal  spirits,  was  standing  upon  her  most  tender 
foot,  by  way  of  getting  his  face  (which  looked  like  a  capital  O 
in  a  red  lettered  play-bill)  on  a  level  with  the  writing-table. 

"  Of  course,  Lavinia  will  be  a  parlor  boarder,"  continued 
the  enviable  father ;  "  and  on  one  point  I  wish  my  directions 
to  be  strictly  observed.  The  fact  is,  that  some  ridiculous  love 
affair,  v/ith  a  person  much  her  inferior  in  life,  has  been  the 
cause  of  her  present  state  of  mind.  Knov/ing  that  of  course, 
under  your  care,  she  can  have  no  opportunity  of  meeting  this 
person,  1  do  not  object  to — indeed,  I  should  rather  prefer — 
her  mixing  with  such  society  as  you  see  yourself.'^ 

This  important  statement  was  again  interrupted  by  the  high- 
spirited  little  creature,  in  the  excess  of  his  joyousness  break- 
ing a  pane  of  glass,  and  nearly  precipitating  himself  into  an 
adjacent  area.  James  was  rung  for  ;  considerable  confusion 
and  screaming  succeeded  j  two  little  blue  legs  were  seen  to 
kick  violently  in  the  air  as  the  man  left  the  room,  and  the 
child  was  gone. 

Mr.  Erook  Dingwall  would  like  Miss  Brook  Dingwall  to 
learn  everything,"  said  Mrs.  Brook  Dingwall,  who  hardly  ever 
said  anything  at  all. 

•'Certainly,''  said  both  the  Miss  Crumptons  together. 

"  And  as  I  trust  the  plan  I  have  devised  will  be  effectual 
In  weaning  my  daughter  from  this  absurd  idea,  Miss  Crumj)- 
ton,"  continued  the  legislator,  "  I  hope  you  will  have  the  good- 
ness to  comply,  in  all  respects,  with  any  request  1  may  forward 
to  you." 

The  promise  was  of  course  made  ;  and  after  a  lengthened 
discussion,  conducted  on  behalf  of  the  Dingwalls  with  the 
most  becoming  diplomatic  gravity,  and  on  that  of  the  Crump- 
tons  with  profound  respect,  it  was  finally  arranged  that  Mis5 
Lavinia  should  be  forwarded  to  Hammerjsmith  Qi^  thg  n^xt  |da3f 


SENTIMENT. 


es7 


but  one,  on  which  occasion  the  half-yearly  ball  given  at 
the  establishment  was  to  take  place.  It  might  divert  the  dear 
girl's  mind.    This,  by  the  way,  was  another  bit  of  diplomacy. 

Miss  Lavinia  was  introduced  to  her  future  governess,  and 
both  the  Miss  Crumptons  pronounced  her  "  a  most  charming 
girl  an  opinion  which,  by  a  singular  coincidence,  they  always 
entertained  of  any  new  pupil. 

Courtesies  were  exchanged,  acknowledgments  expressed, 
condescension  exhibited,  and  the  interview  terminated. 

Preparations,  to  make  use  of  theatrical  phraseology,  "on 
a  scale  of  magnitude  never  before  attempted,"  were  inces- 
santly made  at  Minerva  House  to  give  every  effect  to  the 
forthcoming  ball.  The  largest  room  in  the  house  was  pleas- 
ingly ornamented  with  blue  calico  roses,  plaid  tulips,  and 
other  equally  natural-looking  artificial  flowers,  the  work  of  the 
young  ladies  themselves.  The  carpet  was  taken  up,  the  fold- 
ing-doors were  taken  down,  the  furniture  was  taken  out,  and 
rout-seats  were  taken  in.  The  linen-drapers  of  Hammer- 
smith were  astounded  at  the  sudden  demand  for  blue  sarsenet 
ribbon,  and  long  white  gloves.  Dozens  of  geraniums  were 
purchased  for  bouquets,  and  a  harp  and  two  violins  were  be- 
spoke from  town,  in  addition  to  the  grand  piano  already  on 
the  premises.  The  young  ladies  who  were  selected  to  show 
off  on  the  occasion,  and  do  credit  to  the  establishment,  prac- 
tised incessantly,  much  to  their  own  satisfaction,  and  greatly 
to  the  annoyance  of  the  lame  old  gentleman  over  the  way; 
and  a  constant  correspondence  was  kept  up,  between  the 
Miss&s  Crumpton  and  the  Hammersmith  pastrycook. 

The  evening  came ;  and  then  there  was  such  a  lacing  of 
stays,  and  tying  of  sandals,  and  dressing  of  hair,  as  never  can 
take  place  with  the  proper  degree  of  bustle  out  of  a  boarding- 
school.  The  smaller  girls  managed  to  be  in  everybody's  way, 
and  were  pushed  about  accordingly ;  and  the  elder  ones 
dressed,  and  tied,  and  flattered,  and  envied,  one  another,  as 
earnestly  and  sincerely  as  if  they  had  actually  com'e  out. 

"  How^  do  I  look,  dear?"  inquired  Miss  Emily  Smithers, 
the  belle  of  the  house,  of  Miss  Caroline  Wilson,  who  was  her 
bosom  friend,  because  she  was  the  ugliest  girl  in  Hammer- 
smith, or  out  of  it. 

"  Oh  !  charming,  dear.    How  do  I  ?  " 

"  Delightful !  you  never  looked  so  handsome,'*  returned 
the  belle,  adjusting  her  own  dress,  and  not  bestowing  a  glance 
on  her  poor  companion. 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


I  hope  young  Hilton  will  come  early,"  said  another 
young  lady  to  Miss  somebody  else,  in  a  fever  of  expectation. 

I'm  sure  he'd  be  highly  flattered  if  he  knew  it,"  returned 
the  other,  who  was  practising  Vete, 

Oh  !  he's  so  handsome,"  said  the  first. 

Such  a  charming  person  !  "  added  a  second. 

Such  a  distingue  air  !  "  said  a  third. 
"  Oh,  what  do  you  think  ?  "  said  another  girl,  running  into 
the  room  ;     Miss  Crumpton  says  her  cousin's  coming." 

What !  Theodosius  Butler  ? "  said  everybody  in  rap- 
tures. 

"  Is  he  handsome  ?  "  inquired  a  novice. 

"  No,  not  particularly  handsome,"  was  the  general  reply  ,* 
but,  oh,  so  clever  !  " 

Mr.  Theodosius  Butler  was  one  of  those  immortal  geniuses 
who  are  to  be  met  with  in  almost  every  circle.  They  have, 
usually,  very  deep,  monotonous  voices.  They  always  per- 
suade themselves  that  they  are  wonderful  persons,  and  that 
they  ought  to  be  very  miserable,  though  they  don't  precisely 
know  why.  They  are  very  conceited,  and  usually  possess 
half  an  idea  ;  but,  with  enthusiastic  young  ladies,  and  silly 
young  gentlemen,  they  are  very  wonderful  persons.  The  in- 
dividual in  question,  Mr.  Theodosius,  had  written  a  pamphlet 
containing  some  very  weighty  considerations  on  the  expedi- 
ency of  doing  something  or  other  ;  and  as  every  sentence 
contained  a  good  many  words  of  four  syllables,  his  admirers 
took  it  for  granted  that  he  meant  a  good  deal. 

"  Perhaps  that's  he,"  exclaimed  several  young  ladies,  as 
the  first  pull  of  the  evening  threatened  destruction  to  the  bell 
of  the  gate. 

An  awful  pause  ensued.  Some  boxes  arrived  and  a  young 
lady — Miss  Brook  Dingwall,  in  full  ball  costume,  with  an  im- 
mense gold  chain  round  her  neck,  and  her  dress  looped  up 
with  a  single  rose  ;  an  ivory  fan  in  her  hand,  and  a  most  in- 
teresting expression  of  despair  in  her  face. 

The  Miss  Crumptons  inquired  after  the  family,  with  the 
most  excruciating  anxiety,  and  Miss  Brook  Dingwall  was 
formally  introduced  to  her  future  companions.  The  Miss 
Crumptons  conversed  with  the  young  ladies  in  the  most  mel- 
lifluous tones,  in  order  that  Miss  Brook  Dingwall  might  be 
properly  impressed  with  their  amiable  treatment. 

Another  pull  at  the  bell.  Mr.  Dadson  the  writing-master, 
and  his  wife.    The  wife  in  green  silk,  with  shoes  and  cap 


SENTIMENT, 

trimmings  to  coi respond ;  the  writing-master  in  a  white 
waistcoat,  black  knee-shorts,  and  ditto  silk  stockings,  display- 
ing a  leg  large  enough  for  two  writing-masters.  The  young 
ladies  whispered  one  another,  and  the  writing-master  and  his 
wife  flattered  the  Miss  Crumptons,  who  were  dressed  in  am- 
ber, with  long  sashes,  like  dolls. 

Repeated  pulls  at  the  bell,  and  arrivals  too  numerous  to 
particularize  :  papas  and  mammas,  and  aunts  and  uncles,  the 
owners  and  guardians  of  the  different  pupils  ;  the  singing- 
master,  Signor  Lobskini,  in  a  black  wig  ;  the  piano-forte 
player  and  the  violins ;  the  harp,  in  a  state  of  intoxication  , 
and  some  twenty  young  men,  who  stood  near  the  door,  and 
talked  to  one  another,  occasionally  bursting  into  a  giggle.  A 
general  hum  of  conversation.  Coffee  handed  round,  and 
plentifully  partaken  of  by  fat  mammas,  who  looked  like  the 
stout  people  who  come  on  in  pantomimes  for  the  sole  pur- 
pose of  being  knocked  down. 

The  popular  Mr.  Hilton  was  the  next  arrival  ;  and  he 
having,  at  the  request  of  the  Miss  Crumptons,  undertaken  the 
office  of  Master  of  the  Ceremonies,  the  quadrilles  commenced 
with  considerable  spirit.  The  young  men  by  the  door  grad- 
ually advanced  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  in  time 
became  sufficiently  at  ease  to  consent  to  be  introduced  to 
partners.  The  writing-master  danced  every  set,  springing 
about  with  the  most  fearful  agility,  and  his  wife  played  a  rub- 
ber in  the  back-parlor — a  little  room  with  five  book-shelves, 
dignified  by  the  name  of  the  study.  Setting  her  down  to 
whist  was  a  half-yearly  piece  of  generalship  on  the  part  of  the 
Miss  Crumptons  ;  it  was  necessary  to  hide  her  somewhere,  on 
account  of  her  being  a  fright. 

The  interesting  Lavinia  Brook  Dingwall  was  the  only  girl 
present,  who  appeared  to  take  no  interest  in  the  proceedings 
of  the  evening.  In  vain  was  she  solicited  to  dance  ;  in  vain 
was  the  universal  homage  paid  to  her  as  the  daughter  of  a 
member  of  parliament.  She  was  equally  unmoved  by  the 
splendid  tenor  of  the  inimitable  Lobskini,  and  the  brilliant 
execution  of  Miss  Laetitia  Parsons,  whose  performance  of 
"  The  Recollections  of  Ireland  "  was  universally  declared  to 
be  almost  equal  to  that  of  Moscheles  himself.  Not  even  the 
announcement  of  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Theodosius  Butler  could 
induce  her  to  leave  the  corner  of  the  back  drawing-room  in 
which  she  was  seated. 

"  Now,  Theodosius,"  said  Miss  Maria  Crumpton,  aftet 


66o 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


that  enlightened  pamphleteer  had  nearly  run  the  gauntlet  of 
the  whole  company,  "  I  must  introduce  you  to  our  new 
pupil.'' 

Theodosius  looked  as  if  he  cared  for  nothing  earthly. 
She's  the  daughter  of  a  member  of  parliament,"  said 
Maria. — Theodosius  started. 

And  her  name  is  ?  "  he  inquired. 

Miss  Brook  Dingwall." 
"  Great  Heaven  !  "  poetically  exclaimed  Theodosius,  in  a 
low  tone. 

Miss  Crumpton  commenced  the  introduction  in  due  form 
Miss  Brook  Dingwall  languidly  raised  her  head, 

Edward  !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  a  half-shriek,  on  seeing 
the  well-known  nankeen  legs. 

Fortunately,  as  Miss  Maria  Crumpton  possessed  no  re- 
markable share  of  penetration,  and  as  it  w^as  one  of  the  diplo- 
matic arrangements  that  no  attention  was  to  be  paid  to  Miss 
Lavinia's  incoherent  exclamations,  she  was  perfectly  uncon- 
scious of  the  mutual  agitation  of  the  parties;  and  therefore, 
seeing  that  the  offer  of  his  hand  for  the  next  quadrille  was 
accepted,  she  left  him  by  the  side  of  Miss  Brook  Dingwall. 

Oh,  Edward  !  "  exclaimed  .  that  most  romantic  of  all 
romantic  young  ladies,  as  the  light  of  science  seated  himself 
beside  her,    Oh,  Edward,  is  it  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Theodosius  assured  the  dear  creature,  in  the  most  im- 
passioned manner,  that  he  was  not  conscious  of  being  anybody 
but  himself. 

"  Then  why — why — this  disguise  Oh  !  Edward  M 'Neville 
Walter,  what  have  1  not  suffered  on  your  account  ?  " 

Lavinia,  hear  me,"  replied  the  hero,  in  his  most  poetic 
strain.  ''  Do  not  condemn  me  unheard.  If  anything  that 
emanates  from  the  soul  of  such  a  wretch  as  I,  can  occupy  a 
place  in  your  recollection — if  any  being,  so  vile,  deserve  your 
notice — you  may  remember  that  I  once  published  a  pamphlet 
(and  paid  for  its  publication)  entitled  '  Considerations  on  the 
Policy  of  Removing  the  Duty  on  Bees'-wax.'  " 
I  do — I  do  !  "  sobbed  Lavinia. 

"That,"  continued  the  lover,  ''w^as  a  subject  to  which  your 
father  was  devoted,  heart  and  soul." 

He  was — he  was  !  "  reiterated  the  sentimentalist. 

"  I  knew  it,"  continued  Theodosius,  tragically ;  "  I  knew' 
it — I  forwarded  him  a  copy.  He  wished  to  know  me.  Could 
I  disclose  my  real  name  ?    Never  !    No,  I  assumed  that  name 


SENTIMENT, 


which  you  have  so  often  pronounced  in  tones  of  endearment 
As  M'Neville  Walter,  I  devoted  myself  to  the  stirring  cause; 
as  M^Neville  Walter  I  gained  your  heart ;  in  the  same  char- 
acter I  was  ejected  from  your  house  by  your  father's  domestics  ; 
and  in  no  character  at  all  have  I  since  been  enabled  to  see 
you.  We  now  meet  again,  and  I  proudly  own  that  I  am 
Theodosius  Butler.'* 

The  young  lady  appeared  perfectly  satisfied  wdth  this 
argumentative  address,  and  bestowed  a  look  of  the  most 
ardent  affection,  on  the  immortal  advocate  of  bees'-wax. 

"  May  I  hope,''  said  he,  "  that  the  promise  your  father's 
violent  behavior  interrupted,  may  be  renewed  ?  " 

"  Let  us  join  this  set,"  replied  Lavinia,  coquettishly — for 
girls  of  nineteen  can  coquette. 

"  No,"  ejaculated  he  of  the  nankeens  ;  "  I  stir  not  from 
this  spot,  writhing  under  this  torture  of  suspense.    May  I — 
may  I — hope  ?  ' 
You  may. 

*^The  promise  is  renewed  ?  " 
It  is." 

"  I  have  your  permission  ?  " 

"  You  have." 

"  To  the  fullest  extent  1  " 

"You  know  it,"  returned  the  blushing  Lavinia.  The 
contortions  of  the  interesting  Butler's  visage  expressed  his 
raptures. 

We  could  dilate  upon  the  occurrences  that  ensued.  How 
Mr.  Theodosius  and  Miss  Lavinia  danced,  and  talked,  and 
sighed  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening — how  the  Miss 
Crumptons  w^ere  delighted  thereat.  How  the  writing-master 
continued  to  frisk  about  with  one-horse  power,  and  how  his 
wife,  from  some  unaccountable  freak,  left  the  whist-table  in  the 
little  back-parlor,  and  persisted  in  displaying  her  green  head- 
dress in  the  most  conspicuous  part  of  the  drawing-room.  How 
the  supper  consisted  of  small  triangular  sandwiches  in  trays, 
and  a  tart  here  and  there  by  way  of  variety ;  and  how^  the 
visitors  coilsumed  warm  water  disguised  with  lemon,  and 
dotted  with  nutmeg,  under  the  denomination  of  negus.  These, 
and  other  matters  of  as  much  interest,  however,  we  pass  over, 
for  the  purpose  of  describing  a  scene  of  even  more  import- 
ance. 

A  fortnight  after  the  date  of  the  ball,  Cornelius  Brook 
Dingwall,  Esq.,  M.P.,  was  seated  at  the  same  library-table, 
and  in  the  same  room,  as  we  have  before  described.    He  was 


662 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 


alone,  and  his  face  bore  an  expression  of  deep  thought  and 
solemn  gravity — he  was  drawing  up  "  A  Bill  for  the  better 
observance  of  Easter  Monday." 

The  footman  tapped  at  the  door — the  legislator  started 
from  his  reverie,  and  "Miss  Crumpton "  was  announced. 
Permission  was  given  for  Miss  Crumpton  to  enter  the  sanctum  ; 
Maria  came  sliding  in,  and  having  taken  her  seat  with  a  due 
^  portion  of  affectation,  the  footman  retired,  and  the  governess 
was  left  alone  with  the  M.P.  Oh !  how  she  longed  for  the 
presence  of  a  third  party  !  Even  the  facetious  young  gentle- 
man would  have  been  a  relief. 

Miss  Crumpton  began  the  duet.  She  hoped  Mrs.  Brook 
Dingwall  and  the  handsome  little  boy  were  in  good  health. 

They  were.  Mrs.  Brook  Dingwall  and  little  Frederick 
were  at  Brighton. 

"  Much  obliged  to  you,  Miss  Crumpton,'^  said  Cornelius, 
in  his  most  dignified  manner,  "  for  your  attention  in  calling 
this  morning.  I  should  have  driven  down  to  Hammersmith, 
to  see  Lavinia,  but  your  account  was  so  very  satisfactory,  and 
my  duties  in  the  House  occupy  me  so  much,  that  I  determined 
to  postpone  it  for  a  week.    How  has  she  gone  on  ?  " 

"  Very  well  indeed,  sir,"  returned  Maria,  dreading  to  in- 
form the  father  that  she  had  gone  off. 

"  Ah,  I  thought  the  plan  on  which  I  proceeded  would  be 
a  match  for  her." 

Here  was  a  favorable  opportunity  to  say  that  somebody 
else  had  been  a  match  for  her.  But  the  unfortunate  governess 
was  unequal  to  the  task. 

"'You  have  persevered  strictly  in  the  line  of  conduct  I  pre- 
*icribed.  Miss  Crumpton  ?  " 

"  Strictly,  sir." 

"  You  tell  me  in  your  note  that  her  spirits  gradually  im- 
proved." 

"  Very  much  indeed,  sir." 

"  To  be  sure.    I  was  convinced  they  would." 

"  But  I  fear,  sir,"  said  Miss  Crumpton,  with  visible  emotion, 
'*  I  fea.'  the  plan  has  not  succeeded,  quite  so  well  as  we  could 
have  wished." 

"  No  !  "  exclaimed  the  prophet.  "  Bless  me  !  Miss 
Crumpton,  you  look  alarmed.    What  has  happened  ?  " 

"  Miss  Brook  Dingwall,  sir  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ? " 

"  Has  gone,  sir  " — said  Maria,  exhibiting  a  strong  inclina 
tion  to  faint. 


SENTIMENT,  663 

"  Gone  ! " 

"  Eloped,  sir." 

"  Eloped  ! — Who  with  —  when  —  where  —  how  ?  "  almost 
shrieked  the  agitated  diplomatist. 

The  natural  yellow  of  the  unfortunate  Maria's  face  changed 
to  all  the  hues  of  the  rainbow,  as  she  laid  a  small  packet  on 
the  member's  table. 

He  hurriedly  opened  it.  A  letter  from  his  daughter,  and 
another  from  Theodosius.  He  glanced  over  their  contents — 
Ere  this  reaches  you,  far  distant — appeal  to  feelings — love  to 
distraction — bees'-wax — slavery,"  &c.,  &c.  He  dashed  his 
hand  to  his  forehead,  and  paced  the  room  with  fearfully  long 
strides,  to  the  great  alarm  of  the  precise  Maria. 

"  Now  mind ;  from  this  time  forward,"  said  Mr.  Brook 
Dingwall,  suddenly  stopping  at  the  table,  and  beating  time 
upon  it  with  his  hand ;  "  from  this  time  forward,  I  never  will, 
under  any  circumstances  whatever,  permit  a  man  who  writes 
pamphlets  to  enter  any  other  room  of  this  house  but  the 
kitchen. — I'll  allow  my  daughter  and  her  husband  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds  a  year,  and  never  see  their  faces  again  ; 
and,  damme  !  ma'am,  I'll  bring  in  a  bill  for  the  abolition  of 
finishing- schools." 

Some  time  has  elapsed  since  this  passionate  declaration. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Butler  are  at  present  rusticating  in  a  small  cot- 
tage at  Ball's-pond,  pleasantly  situated  in  the  immediate  vi- 
cinity of  a  brick-field.  They  have  no  family.  Mr.  Theodosius 
looks  very  important,  and  writes  incessantly ;  but,  in  conse- 
quence of  a  gross  combination  on  the  part  of  publishers,  none 
of  his  productions  appear  in  print.  His  young  wife  begins 
to  think  that  ideal  misery  is  preferable  to  real  unhappiness  ; 
and  that  a  marriage,  contracted  in  haste,  and  repented  at 
leisure,  is  the  cause  of  more  substantial  wretchedness  than 
she  ever  anticipated. 

On  cool  reflection,  Cornelius  Brook  Dingwall,  Esq.,  M. 
P.,  was  reluctantly  compelled  to  admit  that  the  untoward  re- 
sult of  his  admirable  arrangements  was  attributable,  not  to 
the  Miss  Crumptons,but  his  own  diplomacy.  He  however  con- 
soles himself,  like  some  other  small  diplomats,  by  satisfacto- 
rily proving  that  if  his  plans  did  not  succeed,  they  ought  to 
have  done  so.  Minerva  House  is  in  statu  quo^  and  "  The 
Misses  Crumpton  "  remain  in  the  pqaceable  and  undisturbed 
enjoyment  of  all  the  advantages  resulting  from  their  Finish- 
ing-School. 


664  ^^^^  TCHES  B  Y  B02. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  TUGGS'S  AT  RAMSGATE. 

Once  upon  a  time,  there  dwelt,  in  a  narrow  street  on  the 
Surrey  side  of  the  water,  within  three  minutes'  walk  of  old 
London  Bridge,  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs — a  little  dark-faced  man, 
with  shiny  hair,  twinkling  eyes,  short  legs,  and  a  body  of 
very  considerable  thickness,  measuring  from  the  centre  but- 
ton of  his  waistcoat  in  front,  to  the  ornamental  buttons  of 
his  coat  behind.  The  figure  of  the  amiable  Mrs.  Tuggs,  if 
not  perfectly  symmetrical,  was  decidedly  comfortable  ;  and 
the  form  of  her  only  daughter,  the  accomplished  Miss  Char- 
lotte Tuggs,  was  fast  ripening  into  that  state  of  luxuriant 
plumpness  which  had  enchanted  the  eyes,  and  captivated  the 
heart,  of  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs  in  his  earlier  days.  Mr.  Simon 
Tuggs,  his  only  son,  and  Miss  Charlotte  Tuggs's  only  brother, 
was  as  differently  formed  in  body,  as  he  was  differently  con- 
stituted in  mind,  from  the  remainder  of  his  family.  There 
was  that  elongation  of  his  thoughtful  face,  and  that  tendency 
to  weakness  in  his  interesting  legs,  which  tell  so  forcibly  of  a 
great  mind  and  romantic  disposition.  The  slightest  traits  of 
character  in  such  a  being,  possess  no  mean  interesc  to  specu- 
lative minds.  He  usually  appeared  in  public,  in  capacious 
shoes  with  black  cotton  stockings  ;  and  was  observed  to  be 
particularly  attached  to  a  black  glazed  stock,  without  tie  or 
ornament  of  any  description. 

There  is  perhaps  no  profession,  however  useful ;  no  pur- 
suit, however  meritorious  ;  which  can  escape  the  attacks  of 
vulgar  minds.  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs  was  a  grocer.  It  might  be 
supposed  that  a  grocer  was  beyond  the  breath  of  calumny ; 
but  no — the  neighbors  stigmatized  him  as  a  chandler ;  and 
the  poisonous  voice  of  envy  distinctly  asserted  that  he  dis- 
pensed tea  and  coffee  by  the  quartern,  retailed  sugar  by  the 
ounce,  cheese  by  the  slice,  tobacco  by  the  screw,  and  butter 
by  the  pat.  These  taunts,  however,  were  lost  upon  the 
Tuggs's.  Mr.  Tuggs  attended  to  the  grocery  department  ] 
Mrs.  Tuggs  to  the  cheesemongeiy ;  and  Miss  Tuggs  to  her 
education.  Mr.  Simon  Tuggs  kept  his  father's  books  and  his 
own  counsel. 


TFTE  TUGGS'S  A  T  RAMSGA  TE.  66$ 

One  fine  spring  afternoon,  the  latter  gentleman  was  seated 
on  a  tub  of  weekly  dorset,  behind  the  little  red  desk  with  a 
wooden  rail,  which  ornamented  a  corner  of  the  counter  ; 
w^hen  a  stranger  dismounted  from  a  cab,  and  hastily  entered 
the  shop.  He  was  habited  in  black  cloth,  and  bore  with  him, 
a  green  umbrella,  and  a  blue  bag. 

"  Mr.  Tuggs  ?  "  said  the  stranger,  inquiringly, 

"  My  name  is  Tuggs,  replied  Mr.  Simon. 

"It's  the  other  Mr.  Tuggs,"  said  the  stranger,  looking 
towards  the  glass  door  which  led  into  the  parlor  behind  the 
shop,  and  on  the  inside  of  which,  the  round  face  of  Mr. 
Tuggs,senior,  was  distinctly  visible,  peeping  over  the  curtain. 

Mr.  Simon  gracefully  waved  his  pen,  as  if  in  intimation  of 
his  wish  that  his  father  would  advance.  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs, 
with  considerable  celerity,  removed  his  face  from  the  curtain 
and  placed  it  before  the  stranger. 

"  I  come  from  the  Temple,"  said  the  man  with  the  bag. 

"  From  the  Temple  !  "  said  Mrs.  Tuggs,  flinging  open  the 
door  of  the  little  parlor  and  disclosing  Miss  Tuggs  in  per- 
spective. 

"  P'rom  the  Temple  ?  said  Miss  Tuggs  and  Mr.  Simon 
Tuggs  at  the  same  moment. 

"  From  the  Temple  !  "  said  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs,  turning  as 
pale  as  a  Dutch  cheese. 

"  From  the  Temple,"  repeated  the  man  with  the  bag  r 
"  from  Mr.  Cower's,  the  solicitor's.  Mr.  Tuggs,  I  congratu- 
late you,  sir.  Ladies,  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  prosperity  !  We 
have  been  successful."  And  the  man  with  the  bag  leisurely 
divested  himself  of  his  umbrella  and  glove,  as  a  preliminary 
to  shaking  hands  with  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs. 

Now  the  words  "  We  have  been  successful,"  had  no 
sooner  issued  from  the  mouth  of  the  man  with  the  bag,  than 
Mr.  Simon  Tuggs  rose  from  the  tub  of  weekly  Dorset,  opened 
his  eyes  very  wide,  gasped  for  breath,  made  figures  of  eight 
in  the  air  with  his  pen,  and  finally  fell  into  the  arms  of  his 
anxious  mother,  and  fainted  away  without  the  slightest  osten 
sible  cause  or  pretence. 

"  Water  !  "  screamed  Mrs.  Tuggs. 

"  Look  up,  my  son,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Tuggs. 

"  Simon  !  dear  Simon  !  "  shrieked  Miss  Tuggs. 

"  I'm  better  now,"  said  Mr.  Simon  Tuggs.  "What!  suc- 
cessful !  "  And  then,  as  corroborative  evidence  of  his  being 
better,  he  fainted  away  again,  and  was  borne  into  the  little 


666 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


parlor  by  the  united  efforts  of  the  remainder  of  the  family, 
and  the  man  with  the  bag. 

To  a  casual  spectator,  or  /:o  r.ny  one  unacquainted  with 
the  position  of  the  family,  this  fainting  would  have  been  un- 
accountable. To  those  who  understood  the  mission  of  the 
man  with  the  bag,  and  were  moreover  acquainted  with  the 
excitability  of  the  nerves  of  Mr.  Simon  Tuggs,  it  was  quite 
comprehensible.  A  long-pending  law-suit  respecting  the  va 
lidity  of  a  will,  had  been  unexpectedly  decided  ;  and  Mr.  Jo- 
seph Tuggs  was  the  possessor  of  twenty  thousand  pounds. 

A  prolonged  consultation  took  place,  that  night,  in  the 
little  parlor — a  consultation  that  was  to  settle  the  future  des- 
tinies of  the  Tuggs's.  The  shop  was  shut  up  at  an  unusually 
early  hour  ;  and  many  were  the  unavailing  kicks  bestowed 
upon  the  closed  door  by  applicants  for  quarterns  of  sugar,  or 
half-quarterns  of  bread,  or  penn'orths  of  pepper,  which  were 
to  have  been  "  left  till  Saturday/'  but  which  fortune  had  de- 
creed were  to  be  left  alone  altogether. 

"  We  must  certainly  give  up  business,"  said  Miss  Tuggs. 
Oh,  decidedly,"  said  Mrs.  Tuggs. 

"  Simon  shall  go  to  the  bar,"  said  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs. 
And  I  shall  always  sign  myself  '  Cymon  '  in  future,"  said 
his  son. 

And  I  shall  call  myself  Charlotta,"  said  Miss  Tuggs. 
**  And  you  must  always  call  ^?<f'Ma,'and  father 'Pa,'" 
said  Mrs.  Tuggs. 

Yes,  and  Pa  must  leave  off  all  his  vulgar  habits,"  inter 
posed  Miss  Tuggs. 

"  I'll  take  care  of  all  that,"  responded  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs, 
complacently.  He  was,  at  that  very  moment,  eating  pickled 
salmon  with  a  pocket-knife. 

We  must  leave  town  immediately,"  said  Mr.  Cymon 
Tuggs. 

Everybody  concurred  that  this  was  an  indispensable  pre* 
liminary  to  being  genteel.  The  question  then  arose,  Where 
should  they  go  ? 

Gravesend  ? "  mildly  suggested  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs. 
The  idea  was  unanimously  scouted.    Gravesend  was  lozv, 

Margate.^  "  insinuated  Mrs.  Tuggs.  Worse  and  worse 
• — nobody  there,  but  tradespeople. 

Brighton  ?  "  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  opposed  an  insurmount- 
able objection.  All  the  coaches  had  been  upset,  in  turn, 
within  the  last  three  weeks ;  each  coach  had  averaged  tw« 


THE  TUGGS  'S  AT  R  A  MSG  A  TE. 


667 


passengers  killed,  and  six  wounded ;  and,  every  case,  the 
newspapers  had  distinctly  understood  that  "  no  blame  what- 
ever was  attributable  to  the  coachman/' 

"  Ramsgate  ?  "  ejaculated  Mr.  Cymon,  thoughtfully.  To 
be  sure  ;  how  stupid  they  must  have  been,  not  to  have  thought 
of  that  before  !    Ramsgate  was  just  the  place  of  all  others. 

Two  months  after  this  conversation,  the  City  of  London 
Ramsgate  steamer  was  running  gayly  down  the  river.  Her 
flag  was  flying,  her  band  was  playing,  her  passengers  were 
conversing;  everything  about  her  seemed  gay  and  lively. — • 
No  wonder — the  Tuggs's  were  on  board. 

"  Charming,  ain't  it  ?  "  said  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs,  in  a  bottle- 
green  great-coat,  with  a  velvet  collar  of  the  same,  and  a  blue 
travelling-cap  with  a  gold  band. 

"  Soul-inspiring  !  "  replied  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs — he  was 
entered  at  the  bar.    "  Soul-inspiring  !  " 

"  Delightful  morning,  sir !  "  said  a  stoutish,  military-look- 
ing gentleman  in  a  blue  surtout  buttoned  up  to  his  chin,  and 
white  trousers  chained  down  to  the  soles  of  his  boots. 

Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  took  upon  himself  the  responsibility  of 
answering  the  observation.      Heavenly  !  "  he  replied. 

You  are  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  the  beauties  of 
Nature,  sir  ? "  said  the  military  gentleman. 

"  I  am,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs. 

"Travelled  much,  sir  ?  "  inquired  the  military  gentleman. 

"  Not  much,"  replied  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs. 

"  You've  been  on  the  continent,  of  course  ?  "  inquired  the 
military  gentleman. 

"  Not  exactly,"  replied  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs — in  a  qualified 
tone,  as  if  he  wished  it  to  be  implied  that  he  had  gone  half- 
way and  come  back  again. 

"  You  of  course  intend  your  son  to  make  the  grand  tour, 
sir  "  said  the  military  gentleman,  addressing  Mr.  Joseph 
Tuggs. 

As  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs  did  not  precisely  understand  what 
he  grand  tour  was,  or  how  such  an  article  was  manufactured, 
he  replied,  "  Of  course."  Just  as  he  said  the  word,  there 
came  tripping  up,  from  her  seat  at  the  stern  of  the  vessel,  a 
young  lady  in  a  puce-colored  silk  cloak,  and  boots  of  the  same  \ 
with  long  black  ringlets,  large  black  eyes,  brief  petticoats,  and 
unexceptionable  ankles. 

"  Walter,  my  dear,"  said  the  young  lady  to  the  military 
gentleman. 


668 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


"Yes,  Belinda,  my  love/'  responded  the  military  gentle^ 
man  to  the  black-eyed  young  lady. 

"  What  have  you  left  me  alone  so  long  for  ? "  said  the 
young  lady.  "  I  have  been  stared  out  of  countenance  by  those 
rude  young  men." 

"  What !  stared  at  ? "  exclaimed  the  military  gentleman, 
with  an  emphasis  which  made  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  withdraw 
his  eyes  from  the  young  lady's  face  with  inconceivable  rapidity. 
"  Which  young  men — where  ?  "  and  the  military  gentleman 
clenched  his  fist,  and  glared  fearfully  on  the  cigar-smokers 
around. 

"  Be  calm,  Walter,  I  entreat,"  said  the  young  lady. 

"  I  won't,"  said  the  military  gentleman. 

"Do,  sir,"  interposed  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs.  "They  ain't 
worth  your  notice." 

"  No — no — they  are  not,  indeed,"  urged  the  young  lady. 

"I  will  calm,"  said  the  military  gentleman.  "You 
speak  truly,  sir.  I  thank  you  for  a  timely  remonstrance, 
which  may  have  spared  me  the  guilt  of  manslaughter."  Calm- 
ing his  wrath,  the  military  gentleman  wrung  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs 
by  the  hand. 

"  My  sister,  sir !  "  said  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  ;  seeing  that 
the  military  gentleman  was  casting  an  admiring  look  towards 
Miss  Charlotta. 

"  My  wdfe,  ma'am — Mrs.  Captain  Waters,"  said  the  mili- 
tary gentleman,  presenting  the  black-eyed  young  lady. 

"  My  mother,  ma'am — Mrs.  Tuggs,"  said  Mr.  Cymon. 
The  military  gentleman  and  his  wife  murmured  enchanting 
courtesies  ;  and  the  Tuggs's  looked  as  unembarrassed  as  they 
could. 

"  \^lter,  my  dear,"  said  the  black-eyed  young  lady,  after 
they  had  sat  chatting  with  the  Tuggs's  some  half  hour. 

"Yes,  my  love,"  said  the  military  gentleman. 

"  Don't  you  think  this  gentleman  (with  an  inclination  of 
the  head  towards  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs)  is  very  much  like  the 
Marquis  Carriwini  ? " 

"  Lord  bless  me,  very !  "  said  the  military  gentleman. 

"  It  struck  me,  the  moment  I  saw  him,"  said  the  young 
lady,  gazing  intently,  and  with  a  melancholy  air,  on  the  scarlet 
countenance  of  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs.  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  looked 
at  everybody ;  and  finding  that  everybody  was  looking  at 
him,  appeared  to  feel  some  temporary  difficulty  in  disposing 
of  his  eyesight. 


THE  TUGGS  'S  A  T  R  A  MSG  A  7'E, 


669 


"  So  exactly  the  air  of  the  marquis,"  said  the  military 
gentleman. 

Quite  extraordinary !  "  sighed  the  military  gentleman's 

lady. 

You  don't  know  the  marquis,  sir  ?  "  inquired  the  military 
entleman. 

Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  stammered  a  negative. 

"  If  you  did,"  continued  Captain  Walter  Waters,  "  you 
^' ould  feel  how  much  reason  you  have  to  be  proud  of  the 
resemblance — a  most  elegant  man,  with  a  most  prepossessing 
appearance." 

"  He  is — he  is  indeed  !  "  exclaimed  Belinda  Waters  ener- 
getically. As  her  eye  caught  that  of  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs,  she 
withdrew  it  from  his  features  in  bashful  confusion. 

All  this  was  highly  gratifying  to  the  feelings  of  the  Tuggs's  ; 
and  when,  in  the  course  of  farther  conversation,  it  was  dis- 
covered that  Miss  Charlotta  Tuggs  was  the  facsimile  of  a 
titled  relative  of  Mrs.  Belinda  Waters,  and  that  Mrs.  Tuggs 
herself  was  the  very  picture  of  the  Dowager  Duchess  of  Dob- 
bleton,  their  delight  in  the  acquisition  of  so  genteel  and  friend- 
ly an  acquaintance,  knew  no  bounds.  Even  the  dignity  of 
Captain  Walter  Waters  relaxed,  to  that  degree,  that  he  suf- 
fered himself  to  be  prevailed  upon  by  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs,  to 
partake  of  cold  pigeon-pie  and  sherry,  on  deck ;  and  a  most 
delightful  conversation,  aided  by  these  agreeable  stimulants, 
was  prolonged,  until  they  ran  alongside  Ramsgate  Pier. 

"Good-by'e,  dear!"  said  Mrs.  Captain  Waters  to  Miss 
Charlotta  Tuggs,  just  before  the  bustle  of  landing  com- 
menced ;  "  we  shall  see  you  on  the  sands  in  the  morning ; 
and,  as  we  are  sure  to  have  found  lodgings  before  then,  I 
hope  we  shall  be  inseparables  for  many  weeks  to  come." 

"  Oh  !  I  hope  so,"  said  Miss  Charlotta  Tuggs,  emphatl 
cally. 

Tickets,  ladies  and  gen'lm'n,"  said  the  man  on  the  pad- 
dle-box. 

Want  a  porter,  sir  ? "  inquired  a  dozen  men  in  smock- 
frocks. 

"  Now,  my  dear !  "  said  Captain  Waters. 

"  Good-by'e  !  "  said  Mrs.  Captain  Waters—"  good-by*e, 
Mr.  Cymon  !  "  and  with  a  pressure  of  the  hand  which  threw 
the  amiable  young  man's  nerves  into  a  state  of  considerable 
derangement,  Mrs.  Captain  Waters  disappeared  among  the 
crowd,    A  pair  of  puce-colored  boots  were  seen  ascending 


670 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


the  steps,  a  white  handkerchief  fluttered,  a  black  eye  gleamed. 
The  Waters's  were  gone,  and  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  was  alone  in 
a  heartless  world. 

Silently  and  abstractedly,  did  that  too  sensitive  youth 
follow  his  revered  parents,  and  a  train  of  smock-frocks  and 
wheelbarrows,  along  the  pier,  until  the  bustle  of  the  scene 
around,  recalled  him  to  himself.  The  sun  was  shining  brightly  ; 
the  sea,  dancing  to  its  own  music,  rolled  merrily  in  ;  crowds 
of  people  promenaded  to  and  fro  ;  young  ladies  tittered  ;  old 
ladies  talked ;  nurse-maids  displayed  their  charms  to  the 
greatest  possible  advantage  ;  and  their  little  charges  ran  up 
and  down,  and  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out,  under  the  feet,  and 
between  the  legs,  of  the  assembled  concourse,  in  the  most 
playful  and  exhilarating  manner.  There  were  old  gentlemen, 
trying  to  make  out  objects  through  long  telescopes  ;  and 
young  ones,  making  objects  of  themselves  in  open  shirt- 
collars  ;  ladies,  carrying  about  portable  chairs,  and  portable 
chairs  carrying  about  invalids  ;  parties,  waiting  on  the  pier 
for  parties  who  had  come  by  the  steamboat ;  and  nothing 
was  to  be  heard  but  talking,  laughing,  welcoming,  and  merri- 
ment. 

Fly,  sir  ? exclaimed  a  chorus  of  fourteen  men  and  six 
boys,  the  moment  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs,  at  the  head  of  his  little 
party,  set  foot  in  the  street. 

"  Here's  the  gen'lm'n  at  last !  "  said  one,  touching  his  hat 
with  mock  politeness.  Werry  glad  to  see  you,  sir, — been 
a-waitin'  for  you  these  six  weeks.    Jump  in,  if  you  please,  sir  ! 

^'  Nice  light  fly  and  a  fast  trotter,  sir,"  said  another : 
"  fourteen  mile  a  hour,  and  surroundin'  objects  rendered 
inwisible  by  ex-treme  welocity  !  " 

"  Large  fly  for  your  luggage,  sir,"  cried  a  third.  "Werry 
large  fly  here,  sir — reg'lar  bluebottle  !  " 

"  llere^  your  fly,  sir  !  "  shouted  another  aspiring  charioteer, 
mounting  the  box,  and  inducing  an  old  gray  horse  to  indulge 
in  some  imxperfect  reminiscences  of  a  canter.  "  Look  at  him, 
sir  ! — temper  of  a  lamb  and  haction  of  a  steam-ingein  1  " 

Resisting  even  the  temptation  of  securing  the  services  of 
so  valuable  a  quadruped  as  the  last  named,  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs 
beckoned  to  the  proprietor  of  a  dingy  conveyance  of  a 
greenish  hue,  lined  with  faded  striped  calico  ;  and,  the  luggage 
and  the  family  having  been  deposited  therein,  the  animal  in 
the  shafts,  after  describing  circles  in  the  road  for  a  quarter  of 
in  hour,  at  last  consented  to  depart  in  quest  of  lodgings. 


r 

THE  TUGGS'S  A  T  R  A  MSG  A  TE.  67 1 

"  How  many  beds  have  you  got  ?  "^creamed  Mrs.  Tuggs 
out  of  the  fly,  to  the  woman  who  opened  the  door  of  the  first 
house  which  displayed  a  bill  intimating  that  apartments  were 
to  be  let  within. 

"  How  many  did  you  want,  ma'am  ?  was,  of  course,  the 
reply. 

"  Three." 

"  Will  you  step  in,  ma'am  ?  "  Down  got  Mrs.  Tuggs.  The 
family  were  delighted.  Splendid  view  of  the  sea  from  the 
front  windows — charming  !  A  short  pause.  Back  came  Mrs. 
Tuggs  again. — One  parlor  and  a  mattress. 

"  Why  the  devil  didn't  they  say  so  at  first  ?  "  inquired  Mr. 
Joseph  Tuggs,  rather  pettishly. 

"  Don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Tuggs. 

"  Wretches  !  "  exclaimed  the  nervous  Cymon.  Another 
bill — another  stoppage.  Same  question — same  answer — sim- 
ilar result. 

What  do  they  mean  by  this  t  "  inquired  Mr.  Joseph 
Tuggs,  thoroughly  out  of  temper. 

"  Don't  know,"  said  the  placid  Mrs.  Tuggs. 

"  Orvis  the  vay  here,  sir,"  said  the  driver,  by  way  of 
accounting  for  the  circumstance  in  a  satisfactory  manner ;  and 
off  they  went  again,  to  make  fresh  inquiries,  and  encounter 
fresh  disappointments. 

It  had  grown  dusk  when  the  "  fly  " — the  rate  of  whose 
progress  greatly  belied  its  name — after  climbing  up  four  or 
five  perpendicular  hills,  stopped  before  the  door  of  a  dusty 
house,  with  a  bay  window,  from  which  you  could  obtain  a 
beautiful  glimpse  of  the  sea — if  you  thrust  half  of  your  body 
out  of  it,  at  the  imminent  peril  of  falling  into  the  area.  Mrs. 
Tuggs  alighted.  One  ground-floor  sitting-room,  and  three 
cells  with  beds  in  them  up  stairs.  A  double  house.  Family 
on  the  opposite  side.  Five  children  milk-and-watering  in  the 
parlor,  and  one  little  boy,  expelled  for  bad  behavior,  scream- 
ing on  his  back  in  the  passage. 

"  What's  the  terms  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tuggs.  The  mistress  of 
the  house  was  considering  the  expediency  of  putting  on  an 
extra  guinea ;  so,  she  coughed  slightly,  and  affected  not  to 
hear  the  question. 

"  What's  the  terms  t  "  said  Mrs..  Tuggs,  in  a  louder  key. 

"  Five  guineas  a  week,  ma'am,  with  attendance,"  replied 
thf  lodging-house  keeper.  (Attendance  means  the  privilege 
29 


672 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


of  ringing  the  bell  as^  often  as  you  like,  for  your  own  amuse* 
ment.) 

"  Rather  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tuggs. 

"  Oh  dear,  no,  ma'am  !  "  replied  the  mistress  of  the  house, 
with  a  benign  smile  of  pity  at  the  ignorance  of  manners  and 
customs,  which  the  observation  betrayed.    "  Very  cheap  !  " 

Such  an  authority  was  indisputable.  Mrs.  Tuggs  paid  a 
*\veek's  rent  in  advance,  and  took  the  lodgings  for  a  month. 
In  an  hour's  time,  the  family  were  seated  at  tea  in  their  new 
abode. 

Capital  srimps  !  "  said  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs. 

Mr.  Cymon  eyed  his  father  with  a  rebellious  scowl,  as  he 
emphatically  said  Shrimps^ 

"  Well  then,  shrimps,"  said  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs.  "  Srimps 
or  shrimps,  don't  much  matter." 

There  was  pity,  blended  with  malignity,  in  Mr.  Cymon's 
eye,  as  he  replied,  "  Don't  matter,  father !  What  would 
Captain  Waters  say,  if  he  heard  such  vulgarity  ?  " 

"  Or  what  would  dear  Mrs.  Captain  Waters  say,"  added 
Charlotta,  ^'-if  she  saw  mother — ma,  I  mean — eating  them 
whole,  heads  and  all !  " 

"  It  won't  bear  thinking  of  !  "  ejaculated  Mr.  Cymon,  with 
a  shudder.  "  How  different,"  he  thought,  from  the  Dowager 
Duchess  of  Dobbleton  !  " 

"  Very  pretty  woman,  Mrs.  Captain  Waters,  is  she  not, 
Cymon  ?  "  inquired  Miss  Charlotta. 

A  glow  of  nervous  excitement  passed  over  the  countenance 
of  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs,  as  he  replied,  "  An  angel  of  beauty  !  " 

"  Hallo !  "  said  Mr.  Tuggs,  Hallo,  Cymon,  my  boy,  take 
care.  Married  lady,  you  know;"  and  he  winked  one  of  his 
twinkling  eyes  knowingly. 

"  Why,"  exclaimed  Cymon,  starting  up  with  an  ebullition 
of  fury,  as  unexpected  as  alarming,  "  Why  am  I  to  be  re- 
minded of  that  blight  of  my  happiness,  and  ruin  of  my  hopes  ? 
Why  am  I  to  be  taunted  with  the  miseries  which  are  heaped 
upon  my  head  1  Is  it  not  enough  to — to — to — "  and  the  orator 
paused  ;  but  whether  for  want  of  words,  or  lack  of  breath,  was 
never  distinctly  ascertamed. 

There  was  an  impressive  solemnity  in  the  tone  of  this 
address,  and  in  the  air  with  which  the  romantic  Cymon  at  its 
conclusion,  rang  the  bell,  and  demanded  a  flat  candlestick, 
which  effectually  forbade  a  reply.    He  stalked  dramatically  to 


THE  TUGGS'S  A  T  R  A  MSG  A  TE. 


673 


bed,  and  the  Tuggs's  went  to  bed  too,  half  an  hour  afterwards, 
in  a  state  of  considerable  mystification  and  perplexity. 

If  the  pier  had  presented  a  scene  of  life  and  bustle  to  the 
Tuggs's  on  their  first  landing  at  Ramsgate,  it  was  far  sur- 
passed by  the  appearance  of  the  sands  on  the  morning  after 
their  arrival.  It  was  a  fine,  bright,  clear  day,  with  a  light 
breeze  from  the  sea.  There  were  the  same  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen, the  same  children,  the  same  nursemaids,  the  same 
telescopes,  the  same  portable  chairs.  The  ladies  were  employed 
in  needlework,  or  watch-guard  making,  or  knitting,  or  reading 
novels ;  the  gentlemen  were  reading  newspapers  and  maga- 
zines ;  the  children  were  digging  holes  in  the  sand  with 
wooden  spades,  and  collecting  water  therein  ;  the  nursemaids, 
with  their  youngest  charges  in  their  arms,  were  running  in 
after  the  waves,  and  then  running  back  with  the  waves  after 
them  ;  and,  nov/  and  then,  a  little  sailing-boat  either  departed 
with  a  gay  and  talkative  cargo  of  passengers,  or  returned  with 
a  very  silent,  and  particularly  uncomfortable-looking  one. 

"  Well,  I  never  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tuggs,  as  she  and  Mr. 
Joseph  Tuggs,  and  Miss  Charlotta  Tuggs,  and  Mr.  Cymon 
Tuggs,  with  their  eight  feet  in  a  corresponding  number  of 
yellow  shoes,  seated  themselves  on  four  rush-bottomed  chairs, 
which,  being  placed  in  a  soft  part  of  the  sand,  forthwith  sunk 
down  some  two  feet  and  a  half — "  Well,  I  never !  " 

Mr.  Cymon,  by  an  exertion  of  great  personal  strength,  up- 
rooted the  chairs,  and  removed  them  further  back. 

"  Why,  I'm  blessed  if  there  ain't  some  ladies  a-going  in 
exclaimed  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs,  with  intense  astonishment. 

"  Lor,  pa  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Charlotta. 

"  There  is,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs.  And,  sure 
enough,  four  young  ladies,  each  furnished  with  a  towel, 
tripped  up  the  steps  of  a  bathing-machine.  In  went  the  horse, 
floundering  about  in  the  water  ;  round  turned  the  machine  \ 
down  sat  the  driver  ;  and  presently  out  burst  the  young  ladies 
aforesaid,  with  four  distinct  splashes. 

"  Well,  that's  sing'ler,  too  !  "  ejaculated  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs, 
after  an  awkward  pause.    Mr.  Cymon  coughed  slightly. 

"  Why,  here's  some  gentlemen  a-going  in  on  this  side," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Tuggs,  in  a  tone  of  horror. 

Three  machines — three  horses — three  flounderings — three 
turnings  round — three  splashes — three  gentlemen,  disporting 
themselves  in  the  water  like  so  many  dolphins. 

"Well,  thafs  sing'ler!"  said  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs  agaia" 


674 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


Miss  Charlotta  coughed  this  time,  and  another  pause  ensued 
It  was  agreeably  broken. 

^'  How  d'ye  do,  dear  ?  We  have  been  looking  for  you,  all 
the  morning,^'  said  a  voice  to  Miss  Charlotta  Tuggs.  Mrs. 
Captain  Waters  was  the  owner  of  it. 

"  How  d'ye  do? said  Captain  Walter  Waters,  all  suavity; 
and  a  most  cordial  interchange  of  greetings  ensued. 

Belinda,  my  love,''  said  Captain  Walter  Waters,  apply- 
ing his  glass  to  his  eye,  and  looking  in  the  direction  of  the 
sea. 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Captain  Waters. 
"  There's  Harry  Thompson  !  " 

"Where  .'^  "  said  Belinda,  applying  her  glass  to  her  eye. 
"Bathing." 

"  Lor,  so  it  is !    He  don't  see  us,  does  he  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  he  does,"  replied  the  captain.  "  Bless 
my  soul,  how  very  singular  !  " 

"  What  ?  "  inquired  Belinda. 

"  There's  Mary  Golding,  too." 

"  Lor  ! — where  ?  "    (Up  went  the  glass  again.) 

"  There  !  "  said  the  captain,  pointing  to  one  of  the  young 
ladies  before  noticed,  who,  in  her  bathing  costume,  looked  as 
if  she  was  enveloped  in  a  patent  Mackintosh,  of  scanty  dimen- 
sions. 

"  So  it  is,  I  declare  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Captain  Waters. 
"  How  very  curious  we  should  see  them  both  !  " 

"  Very,"  said  the  captain,  with  perfect  coolness. 

"  It's  the  reg'lar  thing  here,  you  see,"  whispered  Mr.  Cy- 
mon  Tuggs  to  his  father. 

"I  see  it  is,"  whispered  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs  in  reply. 
"  Queer,  though — ain't  it  ?  "  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  nodded  as- 
sent. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  doing  with  yourself  this  morning  ?  '* 
inquired  the  captain.    "  Shall  we  lunch  at  Pegwell  " 

"  I  should  like  that  very  much  indeed,"  interposed  Mrs. 
Tuggs.  She  had  never  heard  of  Pegwell ;  but  the  word 
"  lunch  had  reached  her  ears,  and  it  sounded  very  agreea- 
bly. 

"  How  siiall  we  go  ?  "  inquired  the  captain  ;  "  it's  too  warm 
to  walk." 

"  A  shay  ?  "  suggested  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs. 
"  Chaise,"  whispered  Mr.  Cymon. 

"  I  should  think  one  would  be  enough,"  said  Mr.  Joseph 


THE  TUGGS'S  A  T  R  A  MSG  A  TE,  67*5 

Tuggs  aloud,  quite  unconscious  of  the  meaning  of  the  correc* 
tion.       However,  two  shays  if  you  like.'' 

"  I  should  like  a  donkey  so  much,"  said  Belinda. 
Oh,  so  should  I  '  "  echoed  Charlotta  Tuggs. 

"Well,  we  can  have  a  fly,"  suggested  the  captain,  "  and 
you  can  have  a  couple  of  donkeys." 

A  fresh  difficulty  arose.  Mrs.  Captain  Waters  declared  it 
would  be  decidedly  improper  for  two  ladies  to  ride  alone. 
The  remedy  was  obvious.  Perhaps  young  Mr.  Tuggs  would 
be  gallant  enough  to  accompany  them. 

Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  blushed,  smiled,  looked  vacant,  and 
faintly  protested  that  he  was  no  horseman.'  The  objection 
was  at  once  overruled.  A  fly  was  speedily  found  ;  and  three 
donkeys — which  the  proprietor  declared  on  his  solemn  assev- 
eration to  be  "  three  parts  blood,  and  the  other  corn  "—were 
engaged  in  the  service. 

"  Kim  up  !"  shouted  one  of  the  two  boys  who  followed 
behind,  to  propel  the  donkeys,  when  Belinda  Waters  and 
Charlotta  Tuggs  had  been  hoisted,  and  pushed,  and  pulled, 
into  their  respective  saddles. 

"  Hi — hi — hi !  "  groaned  the  other  boy  behind  Mr.  Cymon 
Tuggs.  Away  went  the  donkey,  with  the  stirrups  jingling 
against  the  heels  of  Cymon's  boots,  and  Cymon's  boots  near- 
ly scraping  the  ground. 

"  Way — way  !  Wo — o — o — o —  !  "  cried  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs 
as  well  as  he  could,  in  the  midst  of  the  jolting. 

"  Don't  make  it  gallop  !  "  screamed  Mrs.  Captain  Waters, 
behind. 

"  My  donkey  will  go  into  the  public-house  !  "  shrieked 
Miss  Tuggs  in  the  rear. 

Hi — hi — hi  !  "  groaned  both  the  boys  together  ;  and  on 
went  the  donkeys  as  if  nothing  would  ever  stop  them. 

Everything  has  an  end,  however  ;  even  the  galloping  of 
donkeys  will  cease  in  time.  The  animal  which  Mr.  Cymon 
Tuggs  bestrode,  feeling  sundry  uncomfortable  tugs  at  the  bit, 
the  intent  of  which  he  could  by  no  means  divine,  abruptly 
sidled  against  a  brick  wall,  and  expressed  his  uneasiness  by 
grinding  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs's  leg  on  the  rough  surface.  Mrs. 
Captain  Waters's  donkey,  apparently  under  the  influence  of 
some  playfulness  of  spirit,  rushed  suddenly,  head  first,  into  a 
hedge,  and  declined  to  come  out  again  :  and  the  quadruped 
on  which  Miss  Tuggs  was  mounted,  expressed  his  delight  at 
this  humorous  proceeding  by  firmly  planting  his  for^-feet 


676 


SKE TCHES  BY  BOZ. 


against  the  ground,  and  kicking  up  his  hind-legs  in  a  very 
agile,  but  somewhat  alarming  manner. 

This  abrupt  termination  of  the  rapidity  of  the  ride,  natur- 
ally occasioned  some  confusion.  Both  the  ladies  indulged  in 
vehement  screaming  for  several  minutes ;  and  Mr.  Cymon 
Tuggs,  besides  sustaining  intense  bodily  pain,  had  the  addi- 
tional mental  anguish  of  witnessing  their  distressing  situation, 
without  having  the  power  to  rescue  them,  by  reason  of  his  leg 
being  firmly  screwed  in  between  the  animal  and  the  wall. 
The  efforts  of  the  boys,  however,  assisted  by  the  ingenious 
expedient  of  twisting  the  tail  of  the  most  rebellious  donkey, 
restored  order  in  a  much  shorter  time  than  could  have  reason- 
ably been  expected,  and  the  little  party  jogged  slowly  on 
together. 

"  Now  let  'em  walk,''  said  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs.  "  It's  cruel 
to  overdrive  'em." 

"  Werry  well,  sir,"  replied  the  boy,  with  a  grin  at  his  com- 
panion, as  if  he  understood  Mr.  Cymon  to  mean  that  the 
cruelty  applied  less  to  the  animals  than  to  their  riders. 

"  What  a  lovely  day,  dear !  "  said  Charlotta. 

"  Charming  ;  enchanting,  dear !  "  responded  Mrs.  Captain 
Waters,       What  a  beautiful  prospect,  Mr.  Tuggs  !  " 

Cymon  looked  full  in  Belinda's  face,  as  he  responded — 
"  Beautiful,  indeed  !  "  The  lady  cast  down  her  eyes,  and 
suffered  the  animal  she  was  riding  to.  fall  a  little  back.  Cymon 
Tuggs  instinctively  did  the  same. 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  broken  only  by  a  sigh  from  Mr. 
Cymon  Tuggs. 

Mr.  Cymon,"  said  the  lady  suddenly  in  a  low  tone.  "  Mr. 
Cymon — I  am  another's." 

Mr.  Cymon  expressed  his  perfect  concurrence  in  a  state- 
ment which  it  was  impossible  to  controvert! 

"  If  I  had  not  been — "  resumed  Belinda ;  and  there  she 
stopped." 

"  What — what  ?  "  said  Mr.  Cymon  earnestly.  "  Do  not 
torture  me.    What  would  you  say  ?  " 

If  I  had  not  been  " — continued  Mrs.  Captain  Waters — 
if,  in  earlier  life,  it  had  been  my  fate  to  have  known, 
and.  been  beloved  by,  a  noble  youth — a  kindred  soul — a  con- 
genial spirit — one  capable  of  feeling  and  appreciating  the 
sentiments  which — " 

Heavens  !  what  do  I  hear  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Cymon 
Tuggs.    "  Is  it  possible  !  can  I  believe  my — Come  up  ! 


THE  TUGGS'S  A  T  RAMSGA  TE.  677 

(This  last  unsentimental  parenthesis  was  addressed  to  the 
donkey,  who,  with  his  head  betv^een  his  fore-legs,  appeared  to 
be  examining  the  state  of  his  shoes  with  great  anxiety.) 

"  Hi— hi — hi,"  said  the  boys  behind.  Come  up,"  expos- 
tulated Cymon  Tuggs  again.  Hi — hi — hi,"  repeated  the 
boys.  And  whether  it  was  that  the  animal  felt  indignant  at 
the  tone  of  Mr.  Tuggs's  command,  or  felt  alarmed  by  the 
noise  of  the  deputy  proprietor's  boots  running  behind  him  ; 
or  whether  he  burned  with  a  noble  emulation  to  outstrip  the 
other  donkeys ;  certain  it  is,  that  he  no  sooner  heard  the  sec- 
ond series  of  "  hi — hi's,"  than  he  started  away  with  a  celerity 
of  pace  which  jerked  Mr.  Cymon's  hat  off,  instantaneously, 
and  carried  him  to  the  Pegwell  Bay  hotel  in  no  time,  where  he 
deposited  his  rider  without  giving  him  the  trouble  of  dis- 
mounting, by  sagaciously  pitching  him  over  his  head,  into  the 
very  doorway  of  the  tavern. 

Great  was  the  confusion  of  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs,  when  he  was 
put  right  end  uppermost  by  two  waiters  ;  considerable  was  the 
alarm  of  Mrs.  Tuggs  in  behalf  of  her  son  ;  agonizing  were  the 
apprehensions  of  Mrs.  Captain  Waters  on  his  account.  It  was 
speedily  discovered,  however,  that  he  had  not  sustained  much 
more  injury  than  the  donkey — he  was  grazed,  and  the  animal 
was  grazing — and  then  it  was  a  delightful  party  to  be  sure  ! 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tuggs,  and  the  captain,  had  ordered  lunch  in 
the  little  garden  behind  : — small  saucers  of  large  shrimps, 
tubs  of  butter,  crusty  loaves,  and  bottled  ale.  The  sky  was 
without  a  cloud ;  there  were  flower-pots  and  turf  before  them ; 
the  sea,  from  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  stretching -away  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  discern  anything  at  all ;  vessels  in  the  distance  with 
sails  as  white,  and  as  small,  as  nicely  got-up  cambric  hand- 
kerchiefs. The  shrimps  were  delightful,  the  ale  better,  and 
the  captain  even  more  pleasant  than  either.  Mrs.  Captain 
Waters  was  in  such  spirits  after  lunch  ! — chasing,  first  the 
captain  across  the  turf,  and  among  the  flower-pots ;  and  then 
Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs ;  anS  then  Miss  Tuggs  ;  and  laughing,  too, 
quite  boisterously.  But  as  the  captain  said,  it  didn't  matter; 
who  knew  what  they  were,  there  For  all  the  people  of  the 
house  knew,  they  might  be  common  people.  To  which  Mr. 
Joseph  Tuggs  responded,  "  To  be  sure."  And  then  they  went 
down  the  steep  wooden  steps  a  little  further  on,  which  led  to 
the  bottom  of  the  cliff ;  and  looked  at  the  crabs,  and  the  sea- 
weed, and  the  eels,  till  it  was  more  than  fully  time  to  go  back 
to  Ramsgate  again.    Finally,  Mr.  Cymon  Tu^gs  ascended  the 


678 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


steps  last,  and  Mrs.  Captain  Waters  last  but  one;  and  Mr. 
Cymon  Tuggs  discovered  that  the  foot  and  ankle  of  Mrs. 
Captain  Waters  were  even  more  unexceptionable  than  he  had 
at  first  supposed. 

Taking  a  donkey  towards  his  ordinary  place  of  residence, 
is  a  very  different  thing,  and  a  feat  much  more  easily  to  be 
accomplished,  than  taking  him  from  it.  It  requires  a  great 
deal  of  foresight  and  presence  of  mind  in  the  one  case,  to 
anticipate  the  numerous  flights  of  his  discursive  imagination; 
whereas,  in  the  other,  all  you  have  to  do,  is  to  hold  on,  and 
place  a  blind  confidence  in  the  animal.  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs 
adopted  the  latter  expedient  on  his  return ;  and  his  nerves 
were  so  little  discomposed  by  the  journey,  that  he  distinctly 
understood  they  were  all  to  meet  again  at  the  library  in  the 
evening. 

The  library  was  crowded.  There  were  the  same  ladies 
and  the  same  gentlemen  who  had  been  on  the  sands  in  the 
morning,  and  on  the  pier  the  day  before.  There  were  young 
ladies  in  maroon-colored  gowns  and  black  velvet  bracelets, 
dispensing  fancy  articles  in  the  shop,  and  presiding  over 
games  of  chance  in  the  concert  room.  There  were  marriage- 
able daughters,  and  marriage-looking  mammas,  gaming  and 
promenading,  and  turning  over  music,  and  flirting.  There 
were  some  male  beaus  doing  the  sentimental  in  whispers,  and 
others  doing  the  ferocious  in  mustache.  There  were  Mrs. 
Tuggs  in  amber.  Miss  Tuggs  in  sky-blue,  Mrs.  Captain 
Waters  in  pink.  There  was  Captain  Waters  in  a  bridal  sur- 
tout ;  there  was  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  in  pumps  and  a  gilt  waist- 
coat ;  there  was  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs  in  a  blue  coat,  and  a  shirt 
frill. 

"  Numbers  three,  eight,  and  eleven  !  "  cried  one  of  the 
young  ladies  in  the  maroon-colored  gowns. 

"  Numbers  three,  eight,  and  eleven !  echoed  another 
young  lady  in  the  same  uniform. 

Number  three's  gone,"  said  the  first  young  lady.  "Num- 
bers eight  and  eleven  !  " 

"  Numbers  eight  and  eleven !  "  echoed  the  second  young 
lady. 

"  Number  eight's  gone,  Mary  Ann,"  said  the  first  young 
lady. 

"  Number  eleven  !  "  screamed  the  second. 
"  The  numbers  are  all  taken  now,  ladies,  if  you  please," 
said  the  first.    The  representatives  of  numbers  three,  eight, 


THE  TUGGS'S  A  T  KAMSGA  TE.  679 

and  eleven,  and  the  rest  of  the  numbers,  crowded  round  the 
table. 

Will  you  throw,  ma'am  ? said  the  presiding  goddess, 
handing  the  dice-box  to  the  eldest  daughter  of  a  stout  lady, 
with  four  girls. 

There  was  a  profound  silence  among  the  lookers  on. 
Throw,  Jane,  my  dear,''  said  the  stout  lady.    An  inter- 
esting display  of  bashfulness — a  little  blushing  in  a  cambric 
handkerchief — a  whispering  to  a  younger  sister. 

"  Amelia,  my  dear,  throw  for  your  sister,"  said  the  stout 
lady ;  and  then  she  turned  to  a  walking  advertisement  of  Row- 
land's Macassar  Oil,  who  stook  next  her,  and  said,  "Jane  is 
so  very  modest  and  retiring ;  but  I  can't  be  angry  with  her 
for  it.  An  artless  and  unsophisticated  girl  is  so  truly  amiable, 
that  I  often  wish  Amelia  was  more  like  her  sister  !  " 

The  gentleman  with  the  whiskers  whispered  his  admiring 
approval. 

"  Now,  my  dear ! "  said  the  stout  lady.  Miss  Amelia 
threw — eight  for  her  sister,  ten  for  herself. 

"  Nice  figure,  Amelia,"  whispered  the  stout  lady  to  a  thin 
youth  beside  her. 

"  Beautiful  !  " 

"  And  S7ich  a  spirit !  I  am  like  you  in  that  respect.  I  can 
not  help  admiring  that  life  and  vivacity.  Ah  !  (a  sigh)  I  wish 
I  could  make  poor  Jane  a  little  more  like  my  dear  Amelia !  " 

The  young  gentleman  cordially  acquiesced  in  the  senti- 
ment ;  both  he,  and  the  individual  first  addressed,  were  per- 
fectly contented. 

"  Who's  this  "  inquired  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  of  Mrs.  Cap- 
tain Waters,  as  a  short  female,  in  a  blue  velvet  hat  and 
feathers,  was  led  into  the  orchestra,  by  a  fat  man  in  black 
tights  and  cloudy  Berlins. 

"  Mrs.  Tippin,  of  the  London  theatres,"  replied  Belinda, 
referring  to  the  programme  of  the  concert. 

The  talented  Tippin  having  condescendingly  acknowledged 
the  clapping  of  hands,  and  shouts  of  "  bravo  !  "  which  greeted 
her  appearance,  proceeded  to  sing  the  popular  cavatina  of 
Bid  me  discourse,"  accompanied  on  the  piano  by  Mr.  Tippin  ; 
after  which,  Mr.  Tippin  sang  a  comic  song,  accompanied  on 
the  piano  by  Mrs.  Tippin  :  the  applause  consequent  upon 
which,  was  only  to  be  exceeded  by  the  enthusiastic  approba- 
tion bestowed  upon  an  air  with  variations  on  the  guitar,  by 
Miss  Tippin,  accompanied  on  the  chin  by  Master  Tippin. 


68o 


SKETCHES  BOZ 


Thus  passed  the  evening;  thus  passed  the  days  and 
evenings  of  the  Tuggs's,  and  the  Waters's,  for  six  weeks. 
Sands  in  the  morning— donkeys  at  noon — pier  in  the  after* 
noon — hbrary  at  night — and  the  same  people  everywhere. 

On  that  very  night  six  weeks,  the  moon  was  shining 
brightly  over  the  calm  sea,  which  dashed  against  the  feet  of 
the  tall  gaunt  cliffs,  with  just  enough  noise  to  lull  the  old  fish 
to  sleep,  without  disturbing  the  young  ones,  when  two  figures 
were  discernible — or  would  have  been,  if  anybody  had  looked 
for  them — seated  on  one  of  the  wooden  benches  which  are 
stationed  near  the  verge  of  the  w^estern  cliff.  The  moon  had 
climbed  higher  into  the  heavens,  by  tw^o  hours'  journeying, 
since  those  figures  first  sat  down — and  yet  they  had  moved 
not.  The  crowd  of  loungers  had  thinned  and  dispersed  ;  the 
noise  of  itinerant  musicians  had  died  away  ;  light  after  light 
had  appeared  in  the  windows  of  the  different  houses  in  the 
distance ;  blockade-man  after  blockade-man  had  passed  the 
spot,  wending  his  way  towards  his  solitary  post ;  and  yet  those 
figures  had  remained  stationary.  Some  portions  of  the  two 
forms  were  in  deep  shadow,  but  the  light  of  the  moon  fell 
strongly  on  a  puce-colored  boot  and  a  glazed  stock.  Mr. 
Cymon  Tuggs  and  Mrs.  Captain  Waters  were  seated  on  that 
bench.    They  spoke  not,'  but  were  silently  gazing  on  the  sea. 

"  Walter  will  return  to-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Captain  Waters, 
mournfully  breaking  silence. 

Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  sighed  like  a  gust  of  wind  through  a 
forest  of  gooseberry  bushes,  as  he  replied,  "  Alas  !  he  will." 

"  Oh,  Cymon  !  "  resumed  Belinda,  "  the  chaste  delight,  the 
calm  happiness,  of  this  one  week  of  Platonic  love,  is  too  much 
for  me  !  " 

Cymon  was  about  to  suggest  that  it  was  too  little  for  him, 
but  he  stopped  himself,  and  murmured  unintelligibly. 

"  And  to  think  that  even  this  gleam  of  happiness,  innocent 
as  it  is,"  exclaimed  Belinda,  "  is  now  to  be  lost  for  ever !  " 

"  Oh,  do  not  say  for  ever,  Belinda,"  exclaimed  the  excita- 
ble Cymon,  as  two  strongly-defined  tears  chased  each  other 
dowai  his  pale  face — it  was  so  long  that  there  was  plenty  of 
room  fof  a  chase — "  Do  not  say  for  ever !  " 

"I  must,"  replied  Belinda. 

"  Why  1 "  urged  Cymon,  oh  why  ?  Such  Platonic  ac- 
quaintance as  ours  is  so  harmless,  that  even  your  husband 
can  never  object  to  it." 

"  My  husband  !  "  exclaimed  Belinda.    "  You  little  kno\^ 


THE  TUGGS'S  A  T  RAMSGA  TE,  6S  i 

him.  Jealous  and  revengeful ;  ferocious  in  his  revenge — a 
maniac  in  his  jealousy  !  Would  you  be  assassinated  before 
my  eyes  ?  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs,  in  a  voice  broken  by  emotion, 
expressed  his  disinclination  to  undergo  the  process  of  assassi- 
nation before  the  eyes  of  anybody. 

"  Then  leave  me,"  said  Mrs.  Captain  Waters.  Leave  me, 
this  night  for  ever.    It  is  late  :  let  us  return." 

Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  sadly  offered  the  lady  his  arm,  and 
escorted  her  to  her  lodgings.  He  paused  at  the  door — he 
felt  a  Platonic  pressure  of  his  hand.  ^'  Good-night,"  he  said, 
hesitating. 

"  Good-night,"  sobbed  the  lady.  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  paused 
again. 

"  Won't  you  walk  in  sir?  "  said  the  servant.  Mr.  Tuggs 
hesitated.    Oh,  that  hesitation  !    He  did  walk  in. 

"  Good-night  !  "  said  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  again,  when  he 
reached  the  drawing-room. 

^'  Good-night  !  "  replied  Belinda  ;  and,  if  at  any  period 
of  my  life,  I — Hush  !  "  The  lady  paused  and  stared  with  a 
steady  gaze  of  horror,  on  the  ashy  countenance  of  Mr.  Cymon 
7"uggs.    There  was  a  double  knock  at  the  street-door. 

"  It  is  my  husband  !  "  said  Belinda,  as  the  captain's  voice 
was  heard  below. 

"  And  my  family  ! "  added  Cymon  Tuggs,  as  the  voices  of 
his  relative  floated  up  the  staircase. 

"  The  curtain  !  The  curtain  !  "  gasped  Mrs.  Captain 
Waters,  pointing  to  the  window,  before  which  some  chintz 
hangings  were  closely  drawn. 

But  I  have  done  nothing  wrong,"  said  the  hesitating 
Cymon. 

"  The  curtain  !  "  reiterated  the  frantic  lady  :  "  you  will  be 
murdered."  This  last  appeal  to  his  feelings  was  irresistible. 
The  dismayed  Cymon  concealed  himself  behind  the  curtain 
with  pantomimic  suddenness. 

Enter  the  captain,  Joseph  Tuggs,  Mrs.  Tuggs,  and  Char- 
lotta. 

My  dear,"  said  the  captain,  "  Lieutenant  Slaughter." 
Two  iron-shod  boots  and  one  gruff  voice  were  heard  by  Mr. 
Cymon  to  advance,  and  acknowledge  the  honor  of  the  intro- 
duction. The  sabre  of  the  lieutenant  rattled  heavily  upoi\  the 
floor,  as  he  seated  himself  at  the  table.  Mr.  Cymon's  fears 
almost  overcame  his  reason. 

*^The  brandy,  my  dear  !  "  said  the  captain,    Here  was  a 


682 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


situation  !  They  were  going  to  make  a  night  at  it !  And 
Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  was  pent  up  behind  the  curtain  and  afraid 
to  breathe  ! 

*^  Slaughter,"  said  the  captain,  "  a  cigar?  " 

Now,  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  never  could  smoke  without  feeling 
it  indispensably  necessary  to  retire,  immediately,  and  never 
could  smell  smoke  without  a  strong  disposition  to  cough.  The 
cigars  were  introduced  ;  the  captain  was  a  professed  smoker  \ 
so  was  the  lieutenant ;  so  was  Joseph  Tuggs.  The  apartment 
was  small,  the  door  was  closed,  the  smoke  powerful  :  it  hung 
in  heavy  wreathes  over  the  room,  and  at  length  found  its  way 
behind  the  curtain.  Cymon  Tuggs  held  his  nose,  his  mouth, 
his  breath.    It  was  all  of  no  use — out  came  the  cough. 

"  Bless  my  soul  !  "  said  the  captain,  "  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Miss  Tuggs.    You  dislike  smoking  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  don't  indeed,'^  said  Charlotta 

"  It  makes  you  cough." 

'^Ohdearno." 

"  You  coughed  just  now." 
Me,  Captain  Waters  !  Lor  !  how  can  you  say  so  ?  "  ' 

"  Somebody  coughed,"  said  the  captain. 

"  I  certainly  thought  so,"  said  Slaughter.  No  ;  everybody 
denied  it. 

"  Fancy,"  said  the  captain. 
Must  be,"  echoed  Slaughter. 

Cigars  resumed — more  smoke — another  cough — smoth- 
efed,  but  violent. 

^'  Damned  odd  !  "  said  the  captain,  staring  about  him. 
Sing'ler !  "   ejaculated   the   unconscious    Mr.  Joseph 
Tuggs. 

Lieutenant  Slaughter  looked  first  at  one  person  mysteri- 
ously, then  at  another  ;  then  laid  down  his  cigar,  then  ap- 
proached the  window  on  tiptoe,  and  pointed  with  his  right 
thumb  over  his  shoulder,  in  the  direction  of  the  curtain. 

"  Slaughter  !  "  ejaculated  the  captain,  rising  from  table, 
what  do  you  mean  ?" 

The  lieutenant,  in  reply,  drew  back  the  curtain  and  dis« 
covered  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  behind  it ;  pallid  with  apprehen- 
sion, and  blue  with  wanting  to  cough. 

"  Aha  !  "  exclaimed  the  captain,  furiously,  "what  do  I  seel 
Slaughter,  your  sabre  !  " 

"  Cymon  !  "  screamed  the  Tuggs's 

"  Mercy  !  "  said  Belinda. 


HORATIO  SPAR  KINS. 


683 


Platonic  !  "  gnsped  Cymon. 
"  Your  sabre  ! '  roared  the  captain  :  "  Slaughter — unhand 
me — the  villain's  life  !  " 

Murder  ! ''  screamed  the  Tuggs's. 
"  Hold  him  fast,  sir  !  "  faintly  articulated  Cymon. 
"Water!"  exclaimed  Joseph  Tuggs — and  « Mr.  Cymon 
Tuggs  and  all  the  ladies  forthwith  fainted  away,  and  formed 
a  tableau. 

Most  willingly  would  we  conceal  the  disastrous  termina 
tion  of  the  six  weeks'  acquaintance.  A  troublesome  form^ 
and  an  arbitrary  custom,  however,  prescribe  that  a  story 
should  have  a  conclusion,  in  addition  to  a  commencement ; 
we  have,  therefor^,  no  alternative.  Lieutenant  Slaughter 
brought  a  message — the  captain  brought  an  action.  Mr.  Jo- 
seph Tuggs  interposed — the  lieutenant  negotiated.  When  Mr. 
Cymon  Tuggs  recovered  from  the  nervous  disorder  into  which 
misplaced  affection,  and  exciting  circumstances,  had  plunged 
him,  he  found  that  his  family  had  lost  their  pleasant  acquaint- 
ance ;  that  his  father  was  minus  fifteen  hundred  pounds ;  and 
the' captain  plus  the  precise  sum.  The  money  was  paid  to 
hush  the  matter  up,  but  it  got  abroad  notwithstanding;  and 
there  are  not  wanting  some  who  affirm  that  three  designing 
impostors  never  found  more  easy  dupes,  than  did  Captain 
Waters,  Mrs.  Waters,  and  Lieutenant  Slaughter,  in  the  Tuggs's 
at  Ramsgate. 


CHAPTER  V. 

HORATIO  SPARKINS. 

"  Indeed,  my  love,  he  paid  Teresa  very  great  attention  on 
the  last  assembly  night,"  said  Mrs.  Malderton,  addressing  her 
spouse,  who,  after  the  fatigues  of  the  day  in  the  City,  was  sit- 
ting with  a  silk  handkerchief  over  his  head,  and  his  feet  on 
the  fender,  drinking  his  port ; — "  very  great  attention  ;  and  I 
say  again,  every  possible  encouragement  ought  to  be  given 
him.    He  positively  must  be  asked  down  here  to  dine." 

"Who  must?"  inquired  Mr.  Malderton. 

"  Why,  you  know  whom  I  mean,  my  dear — the  young  man 


684 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


with  the  black  whiskers  and  the  white  cravat,  who  has  just 
come  out  at  our  assembly,  and  whom  all  the  girls  are  talking 

about.    Young  dear  me  !  what's  his  name  ? — Marianne, 

what  is  his  name  ?  "  continued  Mrs.  Malderton,  addressing  her 
youngest  daughter,  who  was  engaged  in  netting  a  purse,  and 
looking  sentimental. 

Mr.  Horatio  Sparkins,  ma,"  replied  Miss  Marianne,  with 
a  sigh. 

^'  Oh  !  yes,  to  be  sure — Horatio  Sparkins,"  said  Mrs.  Mal- 
derton. "  Decidedly  the  most  gentleman-like  young  man  I 
ever  saw.  I  am  sure  in  the  beautifully-made  coat  he  wore 
the  other  night,  he  looked  like — like — " 

"  Like  Prince  Leopold,  ma — so  noble,  so  full  of  senti- 
ment!  "  suggested  Marianne,  in  a  tone  of  enthusiastic  ad- 
miration. 

"  You  should  recollect,  my  dear,"  resumed  Mrs.  Malderton^ 
that  Teresa  is  now  eight-and-twenty ;  and  that  it  really  is 
very  important  that  something  should  be  done." 

Miss  Teresa  Malderton  was  a  very  little  girl,  rather  fat, 
with  vermilion  cheeks,  but  good-humored,  and  still  disen- 
gaged, although,  to  do  her  justice,  the  misfortune  arose  from  no 
lack  of  perseverance  on  her  part.  In  vain  had  she  flirted  for 
ten  years  ;  in  vain  had  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Malderton  assiduously 
kept  up  an  extensive  acquaintance  among  the  young  eligible 
bachelors  of  Cambervv^ell,  and  even  of  Wandsworth  and  Brix- 
ton ;  to  say  nothing  of  those  who  "  dropped  in  "  from  town. 
Miss  Malderton  was  as  well  known  as  the  lion  on  the  top 
of  Northumberland  House,  and  had  an  equal  chance  of  "going 
off." 

I  am  quite  sure  you'd  like  him,"  continued  Mrs.  Malder- 
ton, "  he  is  so  gentlemanly  !  " 

"  So  clever  !  "  said  Miss  Marianne. 

"And  has  such  a  flow  of  language  !  "  added  Miss  Teresa. 

"  He  has  a  great  respect  for  you,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Malderton  to  her  husband.  Mr.  Malderton  coughed,  and 
looked  a^  the  fire. 

"  Yes,  I'm  sure  he's  very  much  attached  to  pa's  society," 
said  Miss  Marianne. 

"  No  doubt  of  it,"  echoed  Miss  Teresa. 

"  Indeed,  he  said  as  much  to  me  in  confidence,"  observed 
Mrs.  Malderton. 

"  Well,  well,"  returned  Mr.  Malderton,  somewhat  flattered  \ 
"  if  I  see  him  at  the  assembly  to-morrow,  perhaps  I'll  ask  him 


HORATIO  SPAR  KINS. 


down.  I  hope  he  knows  we  Uve  at  Oak  Lodge,  Camberwell, 
my  dear  ? 

"  Of  course— and  that  you  keep  a  one-horse  carriage/' 
I'll  see  about  it/'  said  Mr.  Malderton,  composing  him- 
self for  a  nap  ;  "  I'll  see  about  it." 

Mr.  Malderton  was  a  inan  whose  whole  scope  of  ideas  was 
limited  to  Lloyd's,  the  Exchange,  the  India  House,  and  the 
Bank.  A  few  successful  speculations  had  raised  him  from  a 
situation  of  obscurity  and  comparative  poverty,  to  a  state  of 
affluence.  As  frequently  happens  in  such  cases,  the  ideas  of 
himself  and  his  family  became  elevated  to  an  extraordinary 
pitch  as  their  means  increased  ;  they  affected  fashion,  taste, 
and  many  other  fooleries,  in  imitation  of  their  betters,  and 
had  a  very  decided  and  becoming  horror  of  anything  which 
could,  by  possibility,  be  considered  low.  He  was  hospitable 
from  ostentation,  illiberal  from  ignorance,  and  prejudiced 
from  conceit.  Egotism  and  the  love  of  display  induced  him 
to  keep  an  excellent  table  ;  convenience  and  a  love  of  good 
things  of  this  life,  ensured  him  plenty  of  guests.  He  liked  to 
have  clever  men,  or  what  he  considered  such,  at  his  table,  be- 
cause it  was  a  great  thing  to  talk  about ;  but  he  never  could 
endure  what  he  called  "  sharp  fellows."  Probably,  he  cherish- 
ed this  feeling  out  of  compliment  to  his  two  sons,  who  gave 
their  respected  parent  no  uneasiness  in  that  particular.  The 
family  were  ambitious  of  forming  acquaintances  and  connec- 
tions in  some  sphere  of  society  superior  to  that  in  which  they 
themselves  moved  ;  and  one  of  the  necessary  consequences 
of  this  desire,  added  to  their  utter  ignorance  of  the  world  be- 
yond their  own  small  circle,  was,  that  anyone  who  could  lay 
claim  to  an  acquaintance  with  people  of  rank  and  title,  had  a 
sure  passport  to  the  table  at  Oak  Lodge,  Camberwell. 

The  appearance  of  Mr.  Horatio  Sparkins  at  the  assembly, 
had  excited  no  small  degree  of  surprise  and  curiosity  among 
its  regular  frequenters.  Who  could  he  be  ?  He  was  evidently 
reserved,  apparently  melancholy.  Was  he  a  clergyman  — He 
danced  too  well.  A  barrister  ? — he  said  he  was  not  called.  He 
used  very  fine  words,  and  talked  a  great  deal.  Could  he  be  a 
distinguished  foreigner,  come  to  England  for  the  purpose  of 
describing  the  country,  its  manners  and  customs  ;  and  frequent- 
ing public  balls  and  public  dinners,  with  the  view  of  becoming 
acquainted  with  high  life,  polished  etiquette,  and  English  re- 
finement?— No,  he  had  not  a  foreign  accent.  Was  he  a  sur- 
geon, a  contributor  to  tl:e  magazines,  a  writer  of  fashionable 


686 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


novels,  or  an  artist  ? — No  ;  to  each  and  all  of  these  surmises, 
there  existed  some  valid  objection. — "  Then/'  said  everybody, 
•'he  must  be  sovtehodyy — "I  should  think  he  must  be/'  rea- 
soned Mr.  Malderton,  within  himself,  ''because  he  perceives 
our  superiority,  and  pays  us  so  much  attention." 

The  night  succeeding  the  conversation  we  have  just  re- 
corded, was  ''  assembly  night."  The  double-fly  was  ordered 
to  be  at  the  door  of  Oak  Lodge  at  nine  o'clock  precisely. 
The  Miss  Maldertons  were  dressed  in  sky-blue  satin  trimmed 
with  artificial  flowers  ;  and  Mrs.  M.  (who  was  a  little  fat 
woman),  in  ditto, ditto,  looked  like  her  eldest  daughter  mul- 
tiplied by  two.  Mr.  Frederick  Malderton,  the  eldest  son,  in 
full-dress  costume,  was  the  ver)^  heaii  ideal  of  a  smart  waiter  ; 
and  Mr.  Thomas  Malderton,  the  youngest,  with  his  white 
dress-stock,  blue  coat,  bright  buttons,  and  red  watch-ribbon, 
strongly  resembled  the  portrait  of  that  interesting,  but  rash 
young  gentleman,  George  Barnwell.  Every  member  of  the 
party  had  made  up  his  or  her  mind  to  cultivate  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Mr.  Horatio  Sparkins.  Miss  Teresa,  of  course,  was 
to  be  as  amiable  and  interesting  as  ladies  of  eight-and-twenty 
on  the  look-out  for  a  husband,  usually  are.  Mrs.  Malderton 
would  be  all  smiles  and  graces.  Miss  Marianne  would  re- 
quest the  favor  of  some  verses  for  her  album.  Mr.  Malder- 
ton  would  patronize  the  great  unknown  by  asking  him  to  din- 
ner. Tom  intended  to  ascertain  the  extent  of  his  information 
on  the  interesting  topics  of  snuff  and  cigars.  Even  Mr. 
Frederick  Malderton  himself,  the  family  authority  on  all  points 
of  taste,  dress,  and  fashionable  arrangement  ;  who  had  lodgings 
of  his  own  in  town  ;  who  had  a  free  admission  to  Covent-gar- 
den  theatre  ;  who  always  dressed  according  to  the  fashions  of 
the  months  ;  who  went  up  the  water  twice  a-week  in  the  sea- 
son ;  and  who  actually  had  an  intimate  friend  who  once  knew 
a^entleman  who  formerly  lived  in  the  Albany, — even  he  had 
determined  that  Mr.  Horatio  Sparkins  must  be  a  devilish 
good  fellow,  and  that  he  would  do  him  the  honor  of  challeng- 
ing him  to  a  game  at  billiards. 

The  first  object  that  met  the  anxious  eyes  of  the  expect- 
ant family  on  their  entrance  into  the  ball-room,  was  the  inter- 
esting Horatio,  with  his  hair  brushed  off  his  forehead,  and 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ceiling,  reclining  in  a  contemplative  at- 
titude on  one  of  the  seats. 

''There  he  is,  my  dear,"  v/hispered  Mrs,  Malderton  t«r 
Mr.  Malderton. 


MORA  TIO  SPARKINS. 


687 


"  How  like  Lord  Byron  !  "  murmured  Miss  Teresa. 

'*0r  Montgomery!"  whispered  Miss  Marianne. 

"  Or  the  portraits  of  Captain  Cook  !  "  suggested  Tom. 

"Tom — don't  be  an  ass  1  "  said  his  father,  who  checked 
him  on  all  occasions,  probably  with  a  view  to  prevent  his 
becoming  "  sharp  " — which  was  very  unnecessary. 

The  elegant  Sparkins  attitudinized  with  admirable  effect, 
until  the  family  had  crossed  the  room.  He  then  started  up, 
with  the  most  natural  appearance  of  surprise  and  delight  \ 
accosted  Mrs.  Malderton  with  the  utmost  cordiality  ;  saluted 
the  young  ladies  in  the  most  enchanting  manner  ;  bowed  to, 
and  shook  hands  with,  Mr.  Malderton,  with  a  degree  of  re- 
spect amounting  almost  to  veneration  :  and  returned  the  greet- 
ings of  the  two  young  men  in  a  half-gratified,  half-patronizing 
manner,  which  fully  convinced  them  that  he  must  be  an  im- 
portant, and,  at  the  same  time,  condescending  personage. 

Miss  Malderton,"  said  Horatio,  after  the  ordinar}^  salu- 
tations, and  bowing  very  low,  may  I  be  permitted  to  pre- 
sume to  hope  that  you  will  allow  me  to  have  the  pleas- 
ure -" 

I  don't  think  I  am  engaged,"  said  Miss  Teresa,  with  a 
dreadful  affectation  of  indifference  —  but,  really  —  so 
many  " 

Horatio  looked  handsomely  miserable. 

''I  shall  be  most  happy,"  simpered  the  interesting  Teresa, 
at  last.  Horatio's  countenance  brightened  up,  like  an  old 
hat  in  a  shower  of  rain. 

A  very  genteel  young  man,  certainly  !  "  said  the  grati 
fied  Mr.  Malderton,  as  the  obsequious  Sparkins  and  his  part- 
ner joined  the  quadrille  which  was  just  forming. 

"  He  has  a  remarkably  good  address,"  said  Mr.  Fred- 
erick. 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  prime  fellow,"  interposed  Tom,  vvho  always 
managed  to  put  his  foot  in  it — he  talks  just  like  an  auc- 
tioneer." 

Tom !  "  said  his  father  solemnly,  I  think  I  desired 
you,  before,  not  to  be  a  fool."  Tom  looked  as  happy  as  a 
cock  on  a  drizzly  morning. 

How  delightful ! "  said  the  interesting  Horatio  to  his 
partner,  as  they  promenaded  the  room  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  set — ''how  delightful,  how  refreshing  it  is,  to  retire  from 
the  cloudy  storms,  the  v'icissitudes,  and  the  troubles,  of  life..; 
even  if  it  be  belt  for  a  few  short  fleetmg  moments:  and  to 


688 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ, 


spend  those  moments,  fading  and  evanescent  though  they 
be,  in  the  delightful,  the  blessed  society  of  one  individual — 
whose  frowns  would  be  death,  whose  coldness  would  be  mad- 
ness, whose  falsehood  would  be  ruin,  whose  constancy  would 
be  bliss  ;  the  possession  of  whose  affection  would  be  the 
brightest  and  best  reward  that  Heaven  could  bestow  on 
man?" 

What  feeling  !  what  sentiment  !  "  thought  Miss  Teresa, 
as  she  leaned  more  heavily  on  her  companion's  arm. 

^'  But  enough — enough  !  "  resumed  the  elegant  Sparkins, 
with  a  theatrical  air.  "  What  have  I  said  ?  what  have  I — I 
— to  do  with  sentiments  like  these  !  Miss  Malderton — "  here 
he  stopped  short — "  may  I  hope  to  be  permitted  to  offer  the 
humble  tribute  of  " 

"  Really,  Mr.  Sparkins,"  returned  the  enraptured  Teresa, 
blushing  in  the  sweetest  confusion,  "  I  must  refer  you  to 
papa.    I  never  can,  without  his  consent,  venture  to — " 

"  Surely  he  cannot  object — " 
Oh,  yes.    Indeed,  indeed,  you  know  him  not !  "  inter- 
rupted Miss  Teresa,  well  knowing  there  was  nothing  to  fear, 
but  wishing  to  make  the  interview  resemble  a  scene  in  some 
romantic  novel. 

He  cannot  object  to  my  offering  you  a  glass  of  negus," 
returned  the  adorable  Sparkins,  with  some  surprise. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  thought  the  disappointed  Teresa.  ^'  What 
a  fuss  about  nothing  !  " 

It  will  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure,  sir,  to  see  you  to 
dinner  at  Oak  Lodge,  Camberwell,  on  Sunday  next  at  five 
o'clock,  if  you  have  no  better  engagement,"  said  Mr.  Mal- 
derton, at  the  conclusion  of  the  evening,  as  he  and  his  sons 
were  standing  in  conversation  with  Mr.  Horatio*  Sparkins. 

Horatio  bowed  his  acknowledgments,  and  accepted  the 
flattering  invitation. 

I  must  confess,"  continued  the  father,  offering  his  snuff- 
box to  his  new  acquaintance,  ^' that  I  don't  enjoy  these  assem- 
blies half  so  much  as  the  comfort — I  had  almost  said  the  lux- 
ury— of  Oak  Lodge.     They  have  no  great  charms  for  an  ^ 
elderly  man." 

"And  after  all,  sir,  what  is  man  ?  "  said  the  metaphysical 
Sparkins.    "  I  say,  what  is  man?" 

Ah  !  very  true,"  said  Mr.  Malderton  ;  "  very  true." 

"We  know  that  v/e  live  and  breathe,"  continued  Horatio  \ 
**that  we  have  wants  and  wishes,  desires  and  appetites — " 


HORA  TIO  SPARKINS. 


689 


"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Frederick  Malderton,  looking  pro 
found. 

"  I  say,  we  know  that  we  exist,"  repeated  Horatio,  raising 
his  voice,  "but  there  we  stop  ;  there,  is  an  end  to  our  knowl- 
edge ;  there,  is  the  summit  of  our  attainments  ;  there,  is  the 
termination  of  our  ends.    What  more  do  we  know  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Mr.  Frederick — than  whom  no  one 
was  more  capable  of  answering  for  himself  in  that  particular. 
Tom  was  about  to  hazard  something,  but,  fortunately  for  his 
reputation,  he  caught  his  father's  angry  eye,  and  slunk  off  like 
a  puppy  convicted  of  petty  larceny. 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  Mr.  Malderton  the  elder,  as  they 
were  returning  home  in  the  fiy,  "  that  Mr.  Sparkins  is  a  won- 
derful young  man.  Such  surprising  knowledge  !  such  extra- 
ordinary information  !  and  such  a  splendid  mode  of  expressing 
himself  ! " 

"  I  think  he  must  be  somebody  in  disguise,"  said  Miss 
Marianne.    "How  charmingly  romantic  !  " 

"  He  talks  very  loud  and  nicely,-"  timidly  observed  Tom, 
"but  I  don't  exactly  understand  what  he  miCans." 

"  I  almost  begin  to  despair  oiyour  understanding  anything, 
Tom,"  said  his  father,  who,  of  course,  had  been  much  enlight- 
ened by  Mr.  Horatio  Sparkins's  conversation. 

"It  strikes  me,  Tom,"  said  Miss  Teresa,  "  that  you  have 
made  yourself  very  ridiculous  this  evening." 

"  No  doubt  of  it,"  cried  everybody — and  the  unfortunate 
Tom  reduced  himself  into  the  least  possible  space.  That 
night,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Malderton  had  a  long  conversation  re- 
specting their  daughter's  prospects  and  future  arrangements. 
Miss  Teresa  went  to  bed,  considering  whether,  in  the  event 
of  her  marrying  a  title,  she  could  conscientiously  encourage 
the  visits  of  her  present  associates,  and  dreamed,  all  night,  of 
disguised  noblemen,  large  routs,  ostrich  plumes,  bridal  favors, 
and  Horatio  Sparkins. 

Various  surmises  were  hazarded  on  the  Sunday  morning, 
as  to  the  mode  of  conveyance  which  the  anxiously-expected 
Horatio  would  adopt.  Did  he  keep  a  gig  1 — was  it  possible 
he  could  come  on  horseback  ? — or  would  he  patronize  the 
stage  ?  These,  and  other  various  conjectures  of  equal  impor- 
tance, engrossed  the  attention  of  Mrs.  Malderton  and  her 
daughters  during  the  whole  morning^ after  church. 

"  Upon  my  word,  my  dear,  it's  a  most  annoying  thing  that 
that  vulgar  brother  of  yours  should  have  invited  himself  tcj 


690 


SKETCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 


dine  here  to-day,"  said  Mr.  Malderton  to  his  wife,  "On  ac* 
count  of  Mr.  Sparkins's  coming  down,  T  purposely  abstained 
from  asking  any  one  but  Flamwell.  And  then  to  think  of, 
your  brother — a  tradesman — it's  insufferable  1  I  declare  I 
wouldn't  have  him  mention  his  shop,  before  our  new  guest — > 
no,  not  for  a  thousand  pounds  I  I  wouldn't  care  if  he  had  the 
good  sense  to  conceal  the  disgrace  he  is  to  the  family  ;  but 
he's  so  fond  of  his  horrible  business,  that  he  will  let  people 
know  what  he  is." 

Mr.  Jacob  Barton,  the  individual  alluded  to,  was  a  large 
grocer  ;  so  vulgar,  and  so  lost  to  all  sense  of  feeling,  that  he 
actually  never  scrupled  to  avow  that  he  wasn't  above  his  busi- 
ness :  'Mie'd  made  his  money  by  it,  and  he  didn't  care  who 
know'd  it." 

"  Ah  !  Flamwell,  my  dear  fellow,  how  d'ye  do  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Malderton,  as  a  little  spofhsh  man,  with  green  spectacles,  en- 
tered the  room.      You  got  my  note  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did  ;  and  here  1  am  in  consequence." 
You  don't  happen  to  know  this  Mr.  Sparkins  by  name  ? 
You  know  everybody  ?  '• 

Mr.  Flamwell  was  one  of  those  gentlemen  of  remarkably 
extensive  information  whom  one  occasionally  meets  in  society, 
who  pretend  to  know  everybody,  but  in  reality  know  nobody. 
At  Malderton's,  where  any  stories  about  great  people  were 
received  with  a  greedy  ear,  he  w^as  an  especial  favorite  ;  and, 
knowing  the  kind  of  people  he  had  to  deal  with,  he  carried  his 
passion  of  claiming  acquaintance  with  everybody,  to  the  most 
immoderate  length.  He  had  rather  a  singular  way  of  telling 
his  greatest  lies  in  a  parenthesis,  and  with  an  air  of  self-denial, 
as  if  he  feared  being  thought  egotistical. 

**  Why,  no,  I  don't  know  him  by  that  name,'*  returned 
Flamwell,  in  a  low  tone,  and  with  an  air  of  immense  impor- 
tance.   "  I  have  no  doubt  I  know  him,  though.    Is  he  tall  ?" 

"  Middle  sized,"  said  Miss  Teresa. 
With  black  hair.^  "  inquired  Flamwell,  hazarding  a  bold 
guess. 

Yes,"  returned  Miss  Teresa,  eagerly. 
"  Rather  a  snub  nose  ?  " 
No,"  said  the  disappointed  Teresa,  "  he  has  a  Roman 
nose." 

"  I  said  a  Roman  nose,  didn't  I  ?  "  inquired  Flamwell, 
•*  He's  an  elegant  young  man  ? '' 
''Oh,  certainly." 


HORA  TIO  SPARKINS. 


691 


With  remarkably  prepossessing  manners  ? 
"  Oh,  yes  ! said  all  the  family  together.     "  You  must 
know  him." 

"Yes,  I  thought  you  knew  him,  if  he  was  anybody,"  tri- 
umphantly exclaimed  Mr.  Malderton.  "  Who  d'ye  think  he 
is  ?  " 

"  Why,  from  your  description,"  said  Flamwell,  ruminating, 
and  sinking  his  voice,  almost  to  a  whisper,  "  he  bears  a  strong 
resemblance  to  the  Honorable  Augustus  Fitz-Edward  Fitz- 
John  Fitz-Osborne.  He's  a  very  talented  young  man,  and 
rather  eccentric.  It's  extremely  probable  he  may  have 
changed  his  name  for  some  temporary  purpose." 

Teresa's  heart  beat  high.  Could  he .  be  the  Honorable 
Augustus  Fitz-Edward  Fitz-John  Fitz-Osborne  !  What  a  name 
to  be  elegantly  engraved  upon  two  glazed  cards,  tied  together 
with  a  white  satin  ribbon  !  "  The  honorable  Mrs.  Augustus 
Fitz-Edward  Fi:z-John  Fitz-Osborne  !  "  The  thought  was 
transport. 

"It's  five  minutes  to  five,"  said  Mr.  Malderton,  looking  at 
his  watch  :  "  I  hope  he's  not  going  to  disappoint  us." 

"  There  he  is  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Teresa,  as  a  loud  double- 
knock  was  heard  at  the  door.  Everybody  endeavored  to  look 
— as  people  when  they  particularly  expect  a  visitor  always  do 
— as  if  they  were  perfectly  unsuspicious  of  the  approach  of 
anybody, 

The  room-door  opened, — "  Mr.  Barton  !  "  said  the  ser* 
vant. 

"  Confound  the  man!"  murmured  Malderton.  "Ah!  my 
dear  sir,  how  d'ye  do  !    Any  news  ?  " 

"Why  no,"  returned  the  grocer,  in  his  usual  bluff  manner. 
"  No,  none  partickler.  None  that  I  am  much  aware  of.  How 
d'ye  do,  gals  and  boys  1  Mr.  Flamwell,  sir — glad  to  see 
you." 

"  Here's  Mr.  Sparkins !  "  said  Tom,  who  had  been  looking 
out  at  the  window,  "  on  such  a  black  horse  !  "  There  was 
Horatio,  sure  enough,  on  a  large  black  horse,  curvetting  and 
prancing  along,  like  an  Astley's  supernumerary.  After  a 
great  deal  of  reining  in,  and  pulling  up,  with  the  accompani- 
ment of  snorting,  rearing,  and  kicking,  the  animal  consented 
to  stop  at  about  a  hundred  yards  from  the  gate,  where  Mr. 
Sparkins  dismounted,  and  confided  him  to  the  care  of  Mr. 
Malderton's  groom.  The  ceremony  of  introduction  was  gone 
through,  in  all  due  form.    Mr.  Flamwell  looked  from  behind 


692 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


his  greeA  spectacles  at  Horatio  with  an  air  of  mysterious  im* 
portance  ;  and  the  gallant  Horatio  looked  unutterable  things 
at  Teresa. 

"  Is  he  the  Honorable  Mr.  Augustus  what's  his  name  ?  " 
whispered  Mrs.  Malderton  to  Flamwell,  as  he  was  escorting 
her  to  the  dining-room. 

"  Why,  no — at  least  not  exactly,'^  returned  that  great  au- 
thority— "  not  exactly." 

"  Who  is  he  then  ?  " 
Hush  !  "  said  Flamwell,  nodding  his  head  with  a  grave 
air,  importing  that  he  knew  very  well  ;  but  was  prevented,  by 
some  grave  reasons  of  state,  from  disclosing  the  important 
secret.  It  might  be  one  of  the  ministers  making  himself  ac- 
quainted with  the  views  of  the  people. 

^'  Mr.  Sparkins,"  said  the  delighted  Mrs.  Malderton,  *'pray 
divide  the  ladies.  John,  put  a  chair  for  the  gentleman  between 
Miss  Teresa  and  Miss  Marianne."  This  was  addressed  to  a 
man  who,  on  ordinary  occasions,  acted  as  half-groom,  half- 
gardener  ;  but  who,  as  it  was  important  to  make  an  impression 
on  Mr.  Sparkins,  had  been  forced  into  a  white  neckerchief 
and  shoes,  and  touched  up,  and  brushed,  to  look  like  a  second 
footman. 

The  dinner  was  excellent  ;  Horatio  was  most  attentive  to 
Miss  Teresa,  and  every  one  felt  in  high  spirits,  except  Mr. 
Malderton,  who,  knowing  the  propensity  of  his  brother-in-law, 
Mr.  Barton,  endured  that  sort  of  agony  which  the  newspapers 
inform  us  is  experienced  by  the  surrounding  neighborhood 
when  a  pot-boy  hangs  himself  in  a  hay-loft,  and  which  is 
much  easier  to  be  imagined  than  described." 
"  Have  you  seen  your  friend.  Sir  Thomas  Noland,  lately, 
Flamwell  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Malderton,  casting  a  sidelong  look 
at  Horatio,  to  see  what  effect  the  mention  of  so  great  a  man 
had  upon  him. 

"  Why,  no — not  very  lately.  I  saw  Lord  Gubbleton  the 
day  before  yesterday." 

Ah  !  I  hope  his  lordship  is  very  well  "  said  Malderton, 
in  a  tone  of  the  greatest  interest.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to 
say  that,  until  diat  moment,  he  had  been  quite  innocent  of 
the  existence  of  such  a  person. 

"  Why,  yes  ;  he  was  very  well — very  well  indeed.  He's  a 
devilish  good  fellow.  I  met  him  in  the  City,  and  had  a  long 
chat  with  him.  Indeed,  I'm  rather  intimate  with  him.  I 
couldn't  stop  to  talk  to  him  as  long  as  I  could  wish  thought 


HORATIO  SPAR  KINS. 


693 


because  I  was  on  my  way  to  a  banker's,  a  very  rich  man,  and  a 
member  of  Parliament,  with  whom  I  am  also  rather,  indeed  1 
may  say  very,  intimate.'' 

know  whom  you  mean,"  returned  the  host,  consequen- 
tially— in  reality  knowing  as  much  about  the  matter  as  Flam- 
well  himself.    ''He  has  a  capital  business." 

This  was  touching  on  a  dangerous  topic. 

"Talking  of  business,"  interposed  Mr.  Barton,  from  the 
centre  of  the  table.  "A  gentleman  whom  you  knew  very 
well,  Malderton,  before  you  made  that  first  lucky  spec  of 
yours,  called  at  our  shop  the  other  day,  and — " 

"Barton,  may  I  trouble  you  for  a  potato,"  interrupted  the 
wretched  master  of  the  house,  hoping  to  nip  the  story  in  the 
bud. 

"  Certainly,"  returned  the  grocer,  quite  insensible  of  his 
brother-in-law's  object — "  and  he  said  in  a  very  plain  man- 
ner " 

"  Floury,  if  you.  please,"  interrupted  Malderton  again  ; 
dreading  the  termination  of  the  anecdote,  and  fearing  a  repe- 
tition of  the  word  "  shop." 

"He  said,  says  he,"  continued  the  culprit,  after  despatch- 
ing the  potato  ;  "  says  he,  how  goes  on  your  business  ?  So  I 
said,  jokingly — you  know  my  way — says  I,  I'm  never  above  my 
business,  and  I  hope  my  business  will  never  be  above  me. 
Ha,  ha ! " 

"  Mr.  Sparkins,"  said  the  host,  vainly  endeavoring  to  con* 
ceal  his  dismay.  "  a  glass  of  wine  ?  " 
"With  the  utmost  pleasure,  sir." 
"  Happy  to  see  you." 
"  Thank  you." 

"We  were  talking  the  other  evening,"  resumed  the  host, 
addressing  Horatio,  partly  with  the  view  of  displaying  the 
conversational  powers  of  his  new  acquaintance,  and  partly  in 
the  hope  of  drowning  the  grocer's  stories — "  we  were  talking 
the  other  night  about  the  nature  of  man.  Your  argument 
struck  me  very  forcibly." 

"  And  me,"  said  Mr.  Frederick.  Horatio  made  a  grace- 
ful inclination  of  the  head, 

"  Pray,  what  is  your  opinion  of  woman,  Mr,  Sparkins  " 
inquired  Mrs.  Malderton.    The  young  ladies  simpered. 

"  Man,"  replied  Horatio,  "  man,  whether  he  ranged  the 
bright,  gay, -flowery,  plains  of  a  second  Eden,  or  the  more 
sterile,  barren,  and  I  may  say,  commonplace  regions,  tc  which 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


we  are  compelled  to  accustom  ourselves,  in  times  such  ah 
these ;  man,  under  any  circumstances,  or  in  any  place— 
whether  he  were  bending  beneath  the  withering  blasts  of  the 
frigid  zone,  or  scorching  under  the  rays  of  a  vertical  sun — 
man,  without  woman,  would  be — alone." 

^'  I  am  very  happy  to  find  you  entertain  such  honorable 
opinions,  Mr.  Sparkins,"  said  Mrs.  Malderton. 

"  And  I,"  added  Miss  Teresa.  Horatio  looked  his  de- 
light, and  the  young  lady  blushed. 

Now,  it's  my  opmion,"  said  Mr.  Barton  

I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,"  interposed  Malderton, 
determined  not  to  give  his  relation  another  opportunity, "  and 
I  don't  agree  with  you." 

"  What !  "  inquired  the  astonished  grocer. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  differ  from  you.  Barton,"  said  the  host, 
in  as  positive  a  manner  as  if  he  really  were  contradicting  a 
position  which  the  other  had  laid  down,  "  but  I  cannot  give 
my  assent  to  what  I  consider  a  very  monstrous  proposition." 

"  But  I  meant  to  say — " 
You  never  can  convince  me,"  said  Malderton,  with  ar 
air  of  obstinate  determination.  Never." 

"And  I,"  said  Mr.  Frederick,  following  up  his  father's 
attack,"  "  cannot  entirely  agree  in  Mr.  Sparkins's  argument." 

"What!"  said  Horatio,  who  became  more  metaphysical, 
and  more  argumentative,  as  he  saw  the  female  part  of  the 
family  listening  in  wondering  delight — "  what !  Is  effect  the 
consequence  of  cause  ?    Is  cause  the  precursor  of  effect  ?  " 

"  That's  the  point,"  said  Flamwell. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Malderton. 

"  Because,  if  effect  is  the  consequence  of  cause,  and  if 
cause  does  precede  effect,  I  apprehend  you  are  wrong,"  added 
Horatio. 

"  Decidedly,"  said  the  toad-eating  Flamwell. 

"  At  least,  I  apprehend  that  to  be  the  just  and  logical 
deduction  ?  "  said  Sparkins,  in  a  tone  of  interrogation. 

"  No  doubt  of  it,"  chimed  in  Flamwell  again.  "  It  settles 
the  point." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  does,"  said  Mr.  Frederick  ;  "  I  didn't 
see  it  before." 

"  I  don't  exactly  see  it  now,"  thought  the  grocer  ;  "  but  I 
suppose  it's  all  right." 

"  How  wonderfully  clever  he  is  !  "  whispered  Mrs.  Mal- 
derton to  her  daughters,  as  they  retired  to  the  drawing-room 


HORA  no  SPARKINS, 


"  Oh,  he's  quite  a  love  !  said  both  the  young  ladies  to- 
gether ;  he  talks  like  an  oracle.  He  must  have  seen  a 
great  deal  of  life." 

The  gentlemen  being  left  to  themselves,  a  pause  ensued, 
during  which  everybody  looked  very  grave,  as  if  they  were 
quite  overcome  by  the  profound  nature  of  the  previous  dis- 
cussion. Flamwell,  who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  find  out 
who  and  what  Mr.  Horatio  Sparkins  really  was,  first  broke 
silence. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  that  distinguished  personage,  I 
presume  you  have  studied  for  the  bar  ?  I  thought  of  enter- 
ing once,  myself — indeed,  I'm  rather  intimate  with  some  of  the 
highest  ornaments  of  that  distinguished  profession." 

"  N — no  !  "  said  Horatio,  with  a  little  hesitation  ;  "  not 
exactly." 

But  you  have  been  much  among  the  silk  gowns,  or  I 
mistake  ?  "  inquired  Flamwell,  deferentially. 

"  Nearly  all  my  life,"  returned  Sparkins. 

The  question  was  pretty  well  settled  in  the  mind  of  Mr. 
Flamwell.    He  was  a  young  gentleman    about  to  be  called." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  a  barrister,"  said  Tom,  speaking  for 
the  first  time,  and  looking  round  the  table  to  find  somebody 
who  would  notice  the  remark. 

No  one  made  any  reply. 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  wear  a  wig,"  said  Tom,  hazarding  an 
other  observation. 

"  Tom,  I  beg  you  will  not  make  yourself  ridiculous,"  said 
his  father.  Pray  listen,  and  improve  yourself  by  the  con- 
versation you  hear,  and  don't  be  constantly  making  these 
absurd  remarks. 

"  Very  well,  father,"  replied  the  unfortunate  Tom,  who 
had  not  spoken  a  word  since  he  had  asked  for  another  slice 
of  beef  at  a  quarter-past  five  o'clock,  P.  m.,  and  it  was  then 
eight. 

Well,  Tom,"  observed  his  good-natured  uncle,  "  nevei 
mind  !  /think  with  you.  /shouldn't  like  to  wear  a  wig.  I'd 
rather  wear  an  apron." 

Mr.  Malderton  coughed  violently.  Mr.  Barton  resumed 
— "  For  if  a  man's  above  his  business — " 

The  cough  returned  with  tenfold  violence,  and  did  not 
cease  until  the  unfortunate  cause  of  it,  in  his  alarm,  had  quite 
forgotten  what  he  intended  to  say. 

"  Mr.  Sparkins,"  said  Flamwell,  returning  to  the  charge, 


696 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


"  do  you  happen  to  know  Mr.  Delafontaine,  of  Bedford- 
square  ?  " 

"  I  have  exchanged  cards  with  him  ;  since  which,  indeed, 
T  have  had  an  opportunity  of  serving  him  considerably,"  re- 
phed  Horatio,  sHghtly  coloring ;  no  doubt,  at  having  been  be- 
trayed into  making  the  acknowledgment. 

"  You  are  very  lucky,  if  you  have  had  an  opportunity  of 
obliging  that  great  man,"'  observed  Flam  well,  with  an  air  of 
profound  respect. 

I  don't  know  who  he  is,''  he  wdiispered  to  Mr.  Malderton, 
confidentially,  as  they  followed  Horatio  up  to  the  drawing- 
room.  It's  quite  clear,  however,  that  he  belongs  to  the  law, 
and  that  he  is  somebody  of  great  importance,  and  very  highly 
connected. 

No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  returned  his  companion. 

The  remainder  of  the  evening  passed  away  most  delight- 
fully. Mr.  Malderton,  relieved  from  his  apprehensions  by  the 
circumstance  of  Mr.  Barton's  falling  into  a  profound  sleep,  v/as 
as  affable  and  gracious  as  possible.  Miss  Teresa  played  the 
Fall  of  Paris,"  as  Mr.  Sparkins  declared,  in  a  most  masterly 
manner,  and  both  of  them,  assisted  by  Mr.  Frederick,  tried 
over  glees  and  trios  without  number ;  they  having  made  the 
pleasing  discovery  that  their  voices  harmonized  beautifully.  To 
be  sure,  they  all  sang  the  first  part ;  and  Horatio,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  slight  drawback  of  having  no  ear,  was  perfectly  in- 
nocent  of  knowing  a  note  of  music  ;  still  they  passed  the  time 
very  agreeably,  and  it  was  past  twelve  o'clock  before  Mr. 
Sparkins  ordered  the  mourning-coach-looking  steed  to  be 
brought  out — an  order  which  was  only  complied  with,  on  the 
distinct  understanding  that  he  was  to  repeat  his  visit  on  the 
following  Sunday. 

^'  But,  perhaps,  Mr.  Sparkins  will  form  one  of  our  party 
to-morrow  evening?"  suggested  Mrs.  M.  ''Mr.  Malderton 
intends  taking  the  girls  to  see  the  pantomine."  Mr.  Sparkins 
bowed,  and  promised  to  join  the  party  in  box  48,  in  the  course 
of  the  evening. 

''  We  will  not  tax  you  for  the  morning,"  said  Miss  Teresa, 
bewitchingly  ;  ''for  ma  is  going  to  take  us  to  all  sorts  of 
places,  shopping.  I  know  that  gentlemen  have  a  great  hor- 
ror of  that  employment."  Mr.  Sparkins  bowed  again,  and 
declared  that  he  should  be  delighted,  but  business  of  import- 
ance occupied  him  in  the  morning.  Flamwell  looked  at 
Malderton  significantly. — '^  It's  term  time  !*"  he  whispered. 


HORATIO  SPARKINS, 


697 


At  twelve  o'clock  on  the  following  morning,  the  "  fly  "  was 
at  the  door  of  Oak  Lodge,  to  convey  Mrs.  Malderton  and  her 
daughters  on  their  expedition  for  the  day.  They  were  to  dine 
and  dress  for  the  play  at  a  friend's  house.  First,  driving 
thither  with  their  band-boxes,  they  departed  on  their  first 
errand  to  make  some  purchases  at  Messrs.  Jones,  Spruggins, 
and  Smith's,  of  Tottenham-court-road  ;  after  which,  they  were 
to  go  to  Redmayne's  in  Bond-street  ;  thence,  to  innumerable 
places  that  no  one  ever  heard  of.  The  young  ladies  beguiled 
the  tediousness  of  the  ride  by  eulogizing  Mr.  Horatio  Spark- 
ins,  scolding  their  mamma  for  taking  them  so  far  to  save  a 
shilling,  and  wondering  whether  they  should  ever  reach  their 
destination.  At  length,  the  vehicle  stopped  before  a  dirty- 
looking  ticketed  linen-draper's  shop,  with  goods  of  all  kinds, 
and  labels  of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  in  the  window.  There  were 
dropsical  fibres  of  seven  with  a  little  three  farthings  in  the 
corner  ;  perfectly  invisible  to  the  naked  eye  ;  "  three  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  ladies'  boas,y>"(9;;/  one  shilling  and  a  penny 
halt-penny  ;  real  French  kid  shoes,  at  two  and  nine-pence  per 
pair ;  green  parasols,  at  an  equally  cheap  rate  j  and  "  every 
description  of  goods,"  as  the  proprietors  said — and  they  must 
know  best — ^*  fifty  per  cent,  under  cost  price." 

"  Lor !  ma,  what  a  place  you  have  brought  us  to  !  "  said 
Miss  Teresa  ;  "  what  would  Mr.  Sparkins  say  if  he  could  see 
us!" 

"  Ah  !  what,  indeed  !  "  said  Miss  Marianne,  horrified  at  the 
idea. 

Pray  be  seated,  ladies.  What  is  the  first  article  ?  "  in- 
quired the  obsequious  master  of  the  ceremonies  of  the  estab- 
lishment, who,  in  his  large  white  neckcloth  and  formal  tie, 
looked  like  a  bad  portrait  of  a  gentleman  "  in  the  Somerset- 
house  exhibition. 

"  I  want  to  see  some  silks,"  answered  Mrs.  Malderton. 

"  Directly,  ma'am. — Mr.  Smith  !    Where  is  Mr.  Smith?  " 

"  Here,  sir,"  cried  a  voice  at  the  back  of  the  shop. 
Pray  make  haste,  Mr.  Smith,"  said  the  M.C.     "  You 
never  are  to  be  found  when  you're  wanted,  sir." 

Mr.  Smith,  thus  enjoined  to  use  all  possible  despatch, 
leaped  over  the  counter  with  great  agility,  and  placed  him- 
self before  the  newly-arrived  customers.  Mrs.  Malderton 
uttered  a  faint  scream  ;  Miss  Teresa,  who  had  been  stooping 
down  to  talk  to  her  sister,  raised  her  head,  and  beheld—* 
Horatio  Sparkins  ^ 


698 


SKE  TCITES  B  V  BOZ. 


"We  will  draw  a  veil/'  as  novel  writers  say,  over  the  scene 
that  ensued.  The  mysterious,  philosophical,  romantic,  meta- 
physical Sparkins — he  who,  to  the  interesting  Teresa,  seemed 
like  the  embodied  idea  of  the  young  dukes  and  poetical  ex- 
quisites in  blue  silk  dressing-gowns,  and  ditto  ditto  slippers,  of 
whom  she  had  read  and  dreamed,  but  had  never  expected  to 
behold,  was  suddenly  converted  into  Mr.  Samuel  Smith,  the 
assistant  at  a  cheap  shop  the  junior  partner  in  a  slippery 
firm  of  some  three  weeks'  existence.  The  dignified  evanish- 
ment  of  the  hero  of  Oak  Lodge,  on  this  unexpected  recogni- 
tion, could  only  be  equalled  by  that  of  a  furtive  dog  with  a 
considerable  kettle  at  his  tail.  All  the  hopes  of  the  Malder- 
tons  were  destined  at  once  to  melt  away,  like  the  lemon  ices 
at  a  Company's  dinner ;  Almacks  was  still  to  them  as  distant 
as  the  North  Pole  ;  and  Miss  Teresa  had  as  much  chance  of 
a  husband  as  Captain  Ross  had  of  the  north-wes4:  passage. 

Years  have  elapsed  since  the  occurrence  of  this  dreadful 
morning.  The  daisies  have  thrice  bloomed  on  Camberwell- 
green ;  the  sparrows  have  thrice  repeated  their  vernal  chirps 
in  Camberwell-grove  ;  but  the  Miss  Maldertons  are  still  un- 
mated.  Miss  Teresa's  case  is  more  desperate  than  ever  ;  but 
Flamwell  is  yet  in  the  zenith  of  his  reputation  ;  and  the  family 
have  the  same  predilection  for  aristocratic  personages,  with 
an  increased  aversion  to  anything  low. 


CHAPTER  VI, 

THE   BLACK  VEIL. 

One  winter's  evening,  towards  the  close  of  the  year  iSoa, 

or  within  a  year  or  two  of  that  time,  a  young  medical  prac- 
titioner, recently  established  in  business,  was  seated  by  a 
cheerful  fire  in  his  little  parlor,  listening  to  the  wind  which 
was  beating  the  rain  in  pattering  drops  against  the  window,  or 
rumbling  dismally  in  the  chimney.  The  night  was  wet  and 
cold  ;  he  had  been  walking  through  mud  and  water  the  whole 
day,  and  was  now  comfortably  reposing  in  his  dressing-gown 
and  slippers,  more  than  half  asleep  and  less  than  half  awak«^ 


THE  BLACK  VEIL. 


revolving  a  thousand  matters  in  his  wandering  imagination. 
First,  he  thought  how  hard  the  wind  was  blowing,  and  how 
the  cold,  sharp  rain  would  be  at  that  moment  beating  in  his 
face,  if  he  were  not  comfortably  housed  at  home.  Then,  his 
mind  reverted  to  his  annual  Christmas  visit  to  his  native  place 
and  dearest  friends  ;  he  thought  how  glad  they  would  all  be  to 
see  him,  and  how  happy  it  would  make  Rose  if  he  could  only 
tell  her  that  he  had  found  a  patient  at  last,  and  hoped  to 
have  more,  and  to  come  down  again,  in  a  few  months'  time, 
and  marry  her,  and  take  her  home  to  gladden  his  lonely  fire-- 
side,  and  stimulate  him  to  fresh  exertions.  Then,  he  began 
to  wonder  when  his  first  patient  would  appear,  or  whether  he 
was  destined,  by  a  special  dispensation  of  Providence,  never 
to  have  any  patients  at  all  ;  and  then,  he  thought  about  Rose 
again,  and  dropped  to  sleep  and  dreamed  about  her,  till  the 
tones  of  her  sweet  merry  voice  sounded  in  his  ears,  and  her 
soft  tiny  hand  rested  on  his  shoulder. 

There  luas  a  hand  upon  l\is  shoulder,  but  it  was  neither 
soft  nor  tiny  ;  its  owner  being  a  corpulent  round-headed  boy, 
who,  in  consideration  of  the  sum  of  one  shilling  per  week  and 
his  food,  was  let  out  by  the  parish  to  carry  medicine  and  mes- 
sages. As  there  was  no  demand  for  the  medicine,  however, 
and  no  necessity  for  the  messages,  he  usually  occupied  his 
unemployed  hours — averaging  fourteen  a  day — in  abstract- 
ing peppermint  drops,  taking  animal  nourishment,  and  going 
to  sleep. 

"  A  lady,  sir — a  lady  !  "  whispered  the  boy,  rousing  his 
master  with  a  shake. 

"  What  lady  t  "  cried  our  friend,  starting  up,  not  quite 
certain  that  his  dream  was  an  illusion,  and  half  expecting  that 
it  might  be  Rose  herself. — "  What  lady  ?    Where  ?  " 

There,  sir !  replied  the  boy,  pointing  to  the  glass  door 
leading  into  the  surgery,  with  an  expression  of  alarm  which 
the  very  unusual  apparition  of  a  customer  might  have  tended 
to  excite. 

The  surgeon  looked  towards  the  door,  and  started  himself, 
for  an  instant,  on  beholding  the  appearance  of  his  unlocked 
for  visitor. 

It  was  a  singularly  tall  woman,  dressed  in  deep  mourning, 
and  standing  so  close  to  the  door  that  her  face  almost 
touched  the  glass.  The  upper  part  of  her  figure  was  care- 
fully muffled  in  a  black  shawl,  as  if  for  the  purpose  of  con- 
cealment ;  and  her  face  was  shrouded  by  a  thick  black  veil, 


SKETCHES  B  V  BOZ. 


She  stood  perfectly  erect,  her  figure  was  drawn  up  to  its  full 
height,  and  though  the  surgeon  felt  that  the  eyes  beneath  the 
veil  were  fixed  on  him,  she  stood  perfectly  motionless,  and 
evinced,  by  no  gesture  whatever,  the  slightest  consciousness 
of  his  having  turned  towards  her. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  consult  me  ?  "  he  inquired,  with  some 
hesitation,  holding  open  the  door.  It  opened  invv^ards,  and 
therefore  the  action  did  not  alter  the  position  of  the  figure, 
which  still  remained  motionless  on  the  same  spot. 

She  slightly  inclined  her  head,  in  token  of  acquiescence, 

"  Pray  walk  in,"  said  the  surgeon. 

The  figure  moved  a  step  forward  ;  and  then,  turning  its 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  boy — to  his  infinite  horror— ap- 
peared to  hesitate. 

Leave  the  room,  Tom,"  said  the  young  man,  addressing 
the  boy,  whose  large  round  eyes  had  been  extended  to  their 
utmost  width  during  this  brief  interview.  Draw  the  curtain, 
and  shut  the  door." 

The  boy  drew  a  green  curtain  across  the  glass  part  of  the 
door,  retired  into  the  surgery,  closed  the  door  after  him,  and 
immediately  applied  one  of  his  large  eyes  to  the  keyhole  on 
the  other  side. 

The  surgeon  drew  a  chair  to  the  fire,  and  motioned  the 
visitor  to  a  seat.  The  mysterious  figure  slowly  moved  to- 
wards it.  As  the  blaze  shone  upon  the  black  dress,  the  sur- 
geon observed  that  the  bottom  of  it  was  saturated  with  mud 
and  rain. 

You  are  very  wet,"  he  said. 

"I  am,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  low  deep  voice. 

"And  you  are  ill.?  "  added  the  surgeon,  compassionately, 
for  the  tone  was  that  of  a  person  in  pain. 

I  am,"  was  the  reply — "  very  ill :  not  bodily,  but  men- 
tally. It  is  not  for  myself,  or  on  my  own  behalf,"  continued 
the  stranger,  "  that  I  come  to  you.  If  I  labored  under  bod- 
ily  disease,  I  should  not  be  out,  alone,  at  such  an  hour,  or  on 
such  a*night  as  this  ;  and  if  I  were  afflicted  widi  it,  twenty- 
four  hours  hence,  God  knows  how  gladly  I  would  lie  down 
and  pray  to  die.  It  is  for  another  that  I  beseech  your  aid, 
sir.  I  may  be  mad  to  ask  it  for  him — I  think  I  am ;  but, 
nignt  after  night,  through  the  long  dreary  hours  of  watching 
and  weeping,  the  thought  has  been  ever  present  to  my  mind  ; 
and  though  even  /  see  the  hopelessness  of  human  assistance 
availing  him,  the  bare  thought  of  laying  him  in  his  grave 


THE  BLACK  VEIL, 


701 


without  it  makes  my  blood  run  cold !  ".  And  a  shudder,  such 
as  the  surgeon  well  knew  art  could  not  produce,  tr'embled 
through  the  speaker's  frame. 

There  was  a  desperate  earnestness  in  this  woman's  man- 
ner, that  went  to  the  young  man's  heart.  He  was  young  in 
his  profession,  and  had  not  yet  witnessed  enough  of  the  mis- 
eries which  are  daily  presented  before  the  eyes  of  its  mem- 
bers, to  have  grown  comparatively  callous  to  human  suffering, 

'*If,"  he  said,  rising  hastily,  "the  person  of  whom  you 
speak,  be  in  so  hopeless  a  condition  as  you  describe,  not  a 
moment  is  to  be  lost.  I  will  go  with  you  instantly.  Why 
did  you  not  obtain  medical  advice  before  ?  " 

Because  it  would  have  been  useless  before — because  it 
is  useless  even  now,"  replied  the  woman,  clasping  her  hands 
passionately. 

The  surgeon  gazed,  for  a  moment,  on  the  black  veil,  as  if 
to  ascertain  the  expression  of  the  features  beneath  it;  its 
thickness,  however,  rendered  such  a  result  impossible. 

You  are  ill,"  he  said,  gently,  although  you  do  not 
know  it.  The  fever  which  has  enabled  you  to  bear,  without 
feeling  it,  the  fatigue  you  have  evidently  undergone,  is  burn- 
ing within  you  now.  Pat  that  to  your  lips,"  he  continued, 
pouring  out  a  glass  of  water — "  compose  yourself  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  tell  me,  as  calmly  as  you  can,  what  the 
disease  of  the  patient  is,  and  how  long  he  has  been  ill.  When 
I  know  what  it  is  necessary  I  should  know,  to  render  my  visit 
serviceable  to  him,  I  am  ready  to  accompany  you." 

The  stranger  lifted  the  glass  of  water  to  her  mouth,  with- 
out raising  the  veil ;  put  it  down  again  untasted  ;  and  burst 
into  tears. 

"  1  know,"  she  said,  sobbing  aloud,  "  that  what  I  say  to 
you  now,  seems  like  the  ravings  of  fever.  I  have  been 
told  so  before,  less  kindly  than  by  you.  I  am  not  a  young 
woman  ;  and  they  do  say,  that  as  life  steals  on  towards  its 
final  close,  the  last  short  remnant,  worthless  as  it  may  seem 
to  all  beside,  is  dearer  to  its  possessor  than  all  the  years  that 
have  gone  before,  connected  though  they  be  with  the  recollec- 
tion of  old  friends  long  since  dead,  and  young  ones — children 
perhaps— who  have  fallen  off  from,  and  forgotten  one  as  com- 
pletely as  if  they  had  died  too.  My  natural  term  of  life  can- 
not be  many  years  longer,  and  should  be  dear  on  that  account  j 
but  I  would  lay  it  down  without  a  sigh — with  cheerfulness — • 
with  joy — if  what  I  tell  you  now,  were  only  false,  or  imaginary. 


702 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


To-morrow  morning  he  of  whom  I  speak  will  be,  I  know^ 
though  I  would  fain  think  otherwise  beyond  the  reach  of  hu- 
man aid  ;  and  yet,  to-night,  though  he  is  in  deadly  peril,  you 
must  not  see,  and  could  not  serve,  him.'' 

"lam  unwilling  to  increase  your  distress,"  said  the  sur- 
geon, after  a  short  pause,  "  by  making  any  comment  on  what 
you  have  just  said,  or  appearing  desirous  to  investigate  a  sub- 
ject you  are  so  anxious  to  conceal  ;  but  there  is  an  inconsist- 
ency in  your  statement  which  I  cannot  reconcile  with  prob- 
ability. This  person  is  dying  to-night,  and  I  cannot  see  him 
when  my  assistance  might  possibly  avail  ;  you  apprehend  it 
will  be  useless  to-morrow,  and  yet  you  would  have  me  see 
him  then !  If  he  be,  indeed,  as  dear  to  you,  as  your  words 
and  manner  would  imply,  why  not  try  to  save  his  life  before 
delay  and  the  progress  of  his  disease  render  it  impracti- 
cable ? " 

God  help  me  !  "  exclaimed  the  woman,  weeping  bitterly, 
"  how  can  1  hope  strangers  will  believe  what  appears  incred- 
ible, even  to  myself  t  You  will  not  see  him  then,  sir  ?  "  she 
added,  rising  suddenly. 

"  I  did  not  say  that  I  declined  to  see  him,"  replied  the 
surgeon  ;  but  I  warn  you,  that  if  you  persist  in  this  extraor- 
dinary procrastination,  and  the  individual  dies,  a  fearful  re- 
sponsibility rests  with  you." 

"  The  responsibility  will  rest  heavily  somewhere,"  replied 
the  stranger  bitterly.  "  Whatever  responsibility  rests  with  me, 
I  am  content  to  bear,  and  ready  to  answer." 

"  As  I  incur  none,"  continued  the  surgeon,  "  by  acceding  to 
your  request,  I  will  see  him  in  the  morning,  if  you  leave  me 
the  address.    At  what  hour  can  he  be  seen  1 " 

^'  Nine,''  replied  the  stranger. 

"You  must  excuse  my  pressing  these  inquiries,"  said  the 
surgeon.    "  But  is  he  in  your  charge  now  ?  " 
"  He  is  not,"  was  the  rejoinder. 

"  Then  if  I  give  you  instructions  for  his  treatment  through 
the  night,  you  could  not  assist  him? " 

The  woman  wept  bitterly,  as  she  replied,  "I  could  not.*' 
Finding  that  there  was  but  little  prospect  of  obtaining 
more  information  by  prolonging  the  interview ;  and  anxious 
to  spare  the  woman's  feelings,  which,  subdued  at  first  by  a 
violent  effort,  were  now  irrepressible  and  most  painful  to 
witness  ;  the  surgeon  repeated  his  promise  of  calling  in  the 
morning  at  the  appointed  hour.    His  visitor,  after  giving  him 


THE  BLACK  VEIL. 


7^3 


a  direction  to  an  obscure  part  of  Walworth,  left  the  house  in 
the  same  mysterious  manner  in  which  she  had  entered  it. 

It  will  be  readily  believed  that  so  extraordinary  a  visit  pro- 
duced a  considerable  impression  on  the  mind  of  the  young 
surgeon  ;  and  that  he  speculated  a  great  deal  and  to  very 
little  purpose  on  the  possible  circumstances  of  the  case.  In 
common  with  the  generality  of  people,  he  had  often  heard  and 
read  of  singular  instances,  in  which  a  presentiment  of  death, 
at  a  particular  day  or  even  minute,  had  been  entertained  and 
realized.  At  one  moment  he  was  inclined  to  think  that  the 
present  might  be  such  a  case  ]  but,  then,  it  occurred  to  him 
that  all  the  anecdotes  of  the  kind  he  had  ever  heard,  were 
of  persons  who  had  been  troubled  with  a  foreboding  of  their 
own  death.  This  woman,  however,  spoke  of  another  person 
— a  man  ;  and  it  was  impossible  to  suppose  that  a  mere  dream 
or  delusion  of  fancy  would  induce  her  to  speak  of  his  ap- 
proaching dissolution  with  such  terrible  certainty  as  she  had 
spoken.  It  could  not  be  that  the  man  was  to  be  murdered 
ii)  the  morning,  and  that  the  woman  originally  a  consenting 
party,  and  bound  to  secresy  by  an  oath,  had  relented,  and, 
though  unable  to  prevent  the  commission  of  some  outrage  on 
the  victim,  had  determined  to  prevent  his  death  if  possible, 
by  the  timely  interposition  of  medical  aid  ?  The  idea  of  such 
things  happening  within  two  miles  of  the  metropolis  appeared 
too  wild  and  preposterous  to  be  entertained  beyond  the  in- 
stant. Then,  his  original  impression  that  the  woman's  intel- 
lects were  disordered,  recurred  \  and,  as  it  was  the  only  mode 
of  solving  the  difficulty  with  any  degree  of  satisfaction,  he 
obstinately  made  up  his  mind  to  believe  that  she  was  mad. 
Certain  misgivings  upon  this  point,  however,  stole  upon  his 
thoughts  at  the  time,  and  presented  themselves  again  and 
again  through  the  long  dull  course  of  a  sleepless  night ;  during 
which,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  the  contrary,  he  was  unable 
to  banish  the  black  veil  from  his  disturbed  imagination. 

The  back  part  of  Walworth,  at  its  greatest  distance  from 
town,  is  a  straggling  miserable  place  enough,  even  in  these 
days  :  but  five-and-thirty  years  ago,  the  greater  portion  of  it  was 
little  better  than  a  dreary  waste,  inhabited  by  a  few  scattered 
people  of  questionable  character,  whose  poverty  prevented 
their  living  in  any  better  neighborhood,  or  whose  pursuits  and 
mode  of  life  rendered  its  solitude  desirable.  Very  many  of 
the  houses  which  have  since  sprung  up  on  all  sides,  were  not 
built  until  some  years  afterwards ;  and  the  great  majority  even 


704 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


of  those  which  were  sprinkled  about,  at  Irregular  intervals 
w^re  of  the  rudest  and  most  miserable  description. 

The  appearance  of  the  place  through  which  he  walked  in 
the  morning,  was  not  calculated  to  raise  the  spirits  of  the 
young  surgeon,  or  to  dispel  any  feeling  of  anxiety  or  depres- 
sion which  the  singular  kind  of  visit  he  was  about  to  make, 
had  awakened.  Striking  off  from  the  high  road,  his  way  lay 
across  a  marshy  common,  through  irregular  lanes,  with  here 
and  there  a  ruinous  and  dismantled  cottage  fast  falling  to 
pieces  with  decay  and  neglect.  A  stunted  tree,  or  pool  of 
stagnant  water,  roused  into  a  sluggish  action  by  the  heavy 
rain  of  the  preceding  night,  skirted  the  path  occasionally; 
and,  now  and  then,  a  miserable  patch  of  garden -ground,  with 
a  few  old  boards  knocked  together  for  a  summer  house,  and 
old  palings  imperfectly  mended  with  stakes  pilfered  from  the 
neighboring  hedges,  bore  testimony,  at  once  to  the  poverty  of 
the  inhabitants,  and  the  little  scruple  they  entertained  in  ap- 
propriating the  property  of  other  people  to  their  own  use. 
Occasionally,  a  filthy-looking  woman  would  make  her  appear- 
ance from  the  door  of  a  dirty  house,  to  empty  the  contents  of 
some  cooking  utensil  into  the  gutter  in  front,  or  to  scream 
after  a  little  slip-shod  girl,  who  had  contrived  to  stagger  a  few 
yards  from  the  door  under  the  weight  of  a  sallow  infant 
almost  as  big  as  herself ;  but,  scarcely  anything  was  stirring 
around  :  and  so  much  of  the  prospect  as  could  be  faintly 
traced  through  the  cold  damp  mist  which  hung  heavily  over 
it,  presented  a  lonely  and  dreary  appearance  perfectly  in  keep- 
mg  with  the  objects  we  have  described. 

After  plodding  wearily  through  the  mud  and  mire  \  making 
many  inquiries  for  the  place  to  which  he  had  been  directed ; 
and  receiving  as  many  contradictory  and  unsatisfactory  replies 
in  return  •  the  young  man  at  length  arrived  before  the  house 
\vhich  had  been  pointed  out  to  him  as  the  object  of  his  desti- 
nation.  It  was  a  small  low  building,  one  story  above  the 
ground,  v/ith  even  a  more  desolate  and  unpromising  exterior 
than  any  he  had  yet  passed.  An  old  yellow  curtain  was 
closely  drawn  across  the  window  up  stairs,  and  the  parlor 
shutters  were  closed,  but  not  fastened.  The  house  was 
detached  from  any  other,  and,  as  it  stood  at  an  angle  of  a 
narrow  lane,  there  was  no  other  Jjiabitation  in  sight. 

When  we  say  that  the  surgeon  hesitated,  and  walked  a  few 
paces  beyond  the  house,  before  he  could  prevail  upon  himself 
to  lift  the  knocker,  we  say  nothing  that  need  raise  a  smilt? 


THE  BLACK  VEIL, 


UfneiT^  the  facft  of  the  boldest  reader.  The  police  of  London 
were  ^  very  dliierent  body  in  that  day ;  the  isolated  position 
of  me  suburbs,  when  the  rage  for  building  and  the  progress 
of  imptovement  had  not  yet  begun  to  connect  them  with  the 
main  bcdy  of  ihc  city  and  its  environs,  rendered  many  of 
them  (aiiof  this  in  particular)  a  place  of  resort  for  the  worst 
and  most  depraveci  characters.  Even  the  streets  in  the  gayest 
parts  of  Loudon  wore  imperfectly  lighted,  at  that  time  ;  and 
such  places  as  these,  were  left  entirely  to  the  mercy  of  the 
moon  and  stars.  Tne  chances  of  detecting  desperate  charac- 
ters, or  of  tracing  them  to  their  haunts,  were  thus  rendered 
very  few,  and  their  offences  naturally  increased  in  boldness, 
as  the  consciousness  of  comparative  security  became  the  more 
impressed  upon  them  by  daily  experience.  Added  to  these 
considerations,  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  young  man 
had  spent  some  time  in  the  public  hospitals  of  the  metropolis  ; 
and,  aUhough  neither  Burke  nor  Bishop  had  then  gained  a 
horrible  notoriety,  his  own  observation  might  have  suggested 
to  him  how  easily  the  atrocities  to  which  the  former  has  since 
given  his  name,  might  be  committed.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
whatever  reflection  made  hmi  hesitate,  he  did  hesitate  :  but, 
being  a  young  man  of  strong  mind  and  great  personal  courage, 
it  was  only  for  an  instant ; — he  stepped  briskly  back  and 
knocked  gently  at  the  door. 

A  low  whispering  was  audible,  immediately  afterwards,  as 
if  some  person  at  the  end  of  the  passage  were  conversing 
stealthily  with  another  on  the  landing  above.  It  was  succeeded 
by  the  noise  of  a  pair  of  heavy  boots  upon  the  bare  floor. 
The  door-chain  was  softly  unfastened  ^  the  door  opened  ;  and 
a  tall,  ill-favored  man,  with  black  hair,  and  a  face,  as  the 
surgeon  often  declared  afterwards,  as  pale  and  haggard,  as  the 
countenance  of  any  dead  man  he  ever  saw,  presented  himself. 

"Walk  in,  sir,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone. 

The  surgeon  did  so,  and  the  man  having  secured  the  door 
again,  by  the  chain,  led  the  way  to  a  small  back  parlor  at  the 
extremity  of  the  passage. 

"Am  I  in  time  ?  " 

"Too  soon,''  replied  the  man.  The  surgeon  turned 
hastily  round,  with  a  gesture  of  astonishment  not  unmixed 
with  alarm,  which  he  found  it  impossible  to  repress. 

"  If  you'll  step  in  here,  sir,"  said  the  man,  who  had 
evidently  noticed  the  action — "  if  you'll  step  in  here,  sir,  you 
won't  be  detained  five  minutes.  I  assure  you." 


7o6 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


The  surgeon  at  once  walked  into  the  room.  The  man 
closed  the  door,  and  left  him  alone. 

It  was  a  little  cold  room,  with  no  other  furniture  than  two 
deal  chairs,  and  a  table  of  the  same  material.  A  handful  of 
fire,  unguarded  by  any  fender,  was  burning  in  the  grate,  which 
brought  out  the  damp  if  it  served  no  more  comfortable  pur 
pose,  for  the  unwholesome  moisture  was  stealing  down  the 
walls,  in  long  sluglike  tracks.  The  window,  which  was  broken 
and  jDatched  in  many  places,  looked  into  a  small  enclosed 
piece  of  ground,  almost  covered  with  water.  Not  a  sound 
was  to  be  heard,  either  within  the  house,  or  without.  The 
young  surgeon  sat  down  by  the  fire-place,  to  await  the  result 
of  his  first  professional  visit. 

He  had  not  remained  in  this  position,  many  minutes,  when 
the  noise  of  some  approaching  vehicle  struck  his  ear.  It 
stopped  ;  the  street-door  w^as  opened  ;  a  low  talking  succeeded, 
accompanied  with  a  shuffling  noise  of  footsteps,  along  the 
passage  and  on  the  stairs,  as  if  two  or  three  men  were  engaged 
in  carrying  some  heavy  body  to  the  room  above.  The  creak- 
ing of  the  stairs,  a  few  second  afterw^ards,  announced  that  the 
new  comers  having  completed  their  task,  whatever  it  was, 
were  leaving  the  house.  The  door  was  again  closed,  and  the 
former  silence  was  restored. 

Another  five  minutes  had  elapsed,  and  the  surgeon  had 
resolved  to  explore  the  house,  in  search  of  some  one  to  whom 
he  might  make  his  errand  known,  when  the  room-door  opened, 
and  his  last  night's  visitor,  dressed  in  exactly  the  same  manner, 
with  the  veil  lowered  as  before,  motioned  him  to  advance. 
The  singular  height  of  her  form,  coupled  with  the  circum- 
stance of  her  not  speaking,  caused  the  idea  to  pass  across  his 
brain  for  an  instant,  that  it  might  be  a  man  disguised  in 
woman's  attire.  The  hysteric  sobs  which  issued  from  beneath 
the  veil,  and  the  convulsive  attitude  of  grief  of  the  whole 
figure,  however,  at  once  exposed  the  absurdity  of  the  suspicion  ; 
and  he  hastily  followed. 

The  woman  led  the  way  up  stairs  to  the  front  room,  and 
paused  at  the  door,  to  let  him  enter  first.  It  was  scantily 
furnished  with  an  old  deal  box,  a  few  chairs,  and  a  tent  bed- 
stead, wdthout  hangings  or  cross-rails,  which  was  covered  with 
a  patchwork  counterpane.  The  dim  light  admitted  through 
the  curtain  which  he  had  noticed  from  the  outside,  rendered 
the  objects  in  the  room  so  indistinct,  and  communicated  to 
all  of  them  so  uniform  a  hue,  that  he  did  not,  at  first,  perceive 


THE  BLACK  VEIL, 


707 


the  object  on  which  his  eye  at  once  rested  when  the  woman 
rushed  frantically  past  him,  and  flung  herself  on  her  knees  by 
the  bedside. 

Stretched  upon  the  bed,  closely  enveloped  in  a  linen 
wrapper,  and  covered  with  blankets,  lay  a  human  form,  stiff 
and  motionless.  The  head  and  face,  which  were  those  of  a 
man,  were  uncovered,  save  by  a  bandage  which  passed  over 
the  head  and  under  the  chin.  The  eyes  were  closed.  The 
left  arm  lay  heavily  across  the  bed,  and  the  woman  held  the 
passive  hand. 

The  surgeon  gently  pushed  the  woman  aside,  and  took  the 
hand  in  his. 

"  My  God  !  "  he  exclaimed,  letting  it  fall  involuntarily — 
"  the  man  is  dead !  " 

The  woman  started  to  her  feet  and  beat  her  hands  to^ 
gether.  "  Oh  !  don't  say  so,  sir,''  she  exclaimed,  with  a  burst  of 
passion,  amounting  almost  to  frenzy.  Oh  !  don't  say  so, 
sir  !  I  can't  bear  it !  Men  have  been  brought  to  life,  before, 
when  unskilful  people  have  given  them  up  fgir  lost  \  and  men 
have  died,  who  might  have  been  restored,  if  proper  means  had 
been  resorted  to.  Don't  let  him  lie  here,  sir,  without  one 
effort  to  save  him  !  This  very  moment  life  may  be  passing 
away.  Do  try,  sir, — do,  for  Heaven's  sake!" — And  while 
speaking,  she  hurriedly  chafed,  first  the  forehead,-  and  then 
breast,  of  the  senseless  form  before  her  ;  and  then,  wildly  beat 
the  cold  hands,  which,  when  she  ceased  to  hold  them,  fell 
listlessly  and  heavily  back  on  the  coverlet. 

"  It  is  of  no  use,  my  good  woman,"  said  the  surgeon,  sooth- 
ingly, as  he  withdrew  his  hand  from  the  man's  breast.    "  Stay 
— undraw  that  curtain  !  " 
^    "  Why  ?  "  said  the  woman,  starting  up. 

"  Undraw  that  curtain  ! "  repeated  the  surgeon  in  an 
agitated  tone. 

"/darkened  the  room  on  purpose,"  said  the  woman, 
throwing  herself  before  him  as  he  rose  to  undraw  it. — "  Oh  ! 
sir,  have  pity  on  me  !  If  it  can  be  of  no  use,  and  he  is  really 
dead,  do  not  expose  that  form  to  other  eyes  than  mine  ?  " 

"  This  man  died  no  natural  or  easy  death,"  said  the 
surgeon,  "  I  must  see  the  body  !  "  With  a  motion  so  sudden, 
that  the  woman  hardly  knew  that  he  had  slipped  from  beside 
her,  he  tore  open  the  curtain,  admitted  the  full  light  of  day, 
and  returned  to  the  bedside. 

"  There  has  been  violence  here,"  he  said,  pointing  towards 


7o8 


SKE  TCHES  B  V  BOZ, 


the  body,  and  gazing  intently  on  the  face,  from  which  thft 
black  veil  was  now,  for  the  first  time,  removed.  In  the  ex- 
citement of  a  minute  before,  the  female  had  thrown  off  the 
bonnet  and  veil,  and  now  stood  with  lier  eyes  fixed  upon  him. 
Her  features  were  those  of  a  woman  about  fifty,  who  had  once 
been  handsome.  Sorrow  and  weeping  had  left  traces  upon 
them  which  not  time  itself  would  ever  have  produced  without 
their  aid  ;  her  face  was  deadly  pale  ,  and  there  was  a  nervous 
contortion  of  the  lip,  and  an  unnatural  fire  in  her  eye,  which 
showed  too  plainly  that  her  bodily  and  mental  powers  had 
nearly  sunk,  beneath  an  accumulation  of  misery. 

There  has  been  violence  here,"  said  the  surgeon,  pre 
serving  his  searching  glance. 

There  has  !    replied  the  woman. 

This  man  has  been  muidered." 
"  That  I  call  God  to  witness  he  has,"  said  the  woman, 
passionately  ;  "  pitilessly,  inhumanly  murdered  !  " 

"  By  whom  ?  "  said  the  surgeon,  seizing  the  woman  by  the 
arm. 

"  Look  at  the  butchers'  marks,  and  then  ask  me  !  "  she 
replied. 

The  surgeon  turned  his  face  towards  the  bed,  and  bent 
over  the  body  which  now  lay  full  in  the  light  of  the  window. 
The  throat  was  swollen,  and  a  livid  mark'  encircled  it.  The 
truth  flashed  suddenly  upon  him. 

This  is  one  of  the  men  who  were  hanged  this  morning  !  " 
he  exclaimed,  turning  away  with  a  shudder. 

"  It  is,"  replied  the  woman,  with  a  cold,  unmeaning 
stare. 

Who  was  he  ?  "  inquired  the  surgeon. 
"  My  S07Z,'"  rejoined  the  woman  ;  and  fell  senseless  at  his 
feet. 

It  was  true.  A  companion,  equally  guilty  with  himself, 
had  been  acquitted  for  want  of  evidence  ;  and  this  man  had 
been  left  for  death,  and  executed.  To  recount  the  circum- 
stances of  the  case,  at  this  distant  period, 'must  be  un- 
necessary, and  might  give  pain  to  some  persons  still  alive. 
The  history  was  an  every  day  one.  The  mother  w^as  a  widow 
without  friends  or  money,  and  had  denied  herself  necessaries 
to  bestow  them  on  her  orphan  boy.  That  boy,  unmindful  of 
her  prayers,  and  forgetful  of  the  sufferings  she  had  endured 
for  him — incessant  anxiety  of  mind,  and  voluntary  starvation 
of  body — had  plunged  into  a  career  of  dissipation  and  crime. 


THE  STEAM  EXCURSION. 


And  this  was  the  result ;  his  own  death  by  the  hangman's 
hands,  and  his  mother's  shame,  and  incurable  insanity. 

For  many  years  after  this  occurrence,  and  when  profitable 
and  arduous  avocations  would  have  led  many  men  to  forget 
that  such  a  miserable  being  existed,  the  young  surgeon  was  a 
daily  visitor  at  the  side  of  the  harmless  mad  woman  ;  not 
only  soothing  her  by  his  presence  and  kindness,  but  alle- 
viating the  rigor  of  her  condition  by  pecuniary  donations 
for  her  comfort  and  support^  bestowed  with  no  sparing  hand. 
In  the  transient  gleam  of  recollection  and  consciousness 
which  preceded  her  death,  a  prayer  for  his  welfare  and  pro- 
tection, as  fervent  as  mortal  ever  breathed,  rose  from  the  lips 
of  this  poor  friendless  creature.  That  prayer  flew  to  Heaven, 
and  was  heard.  The  blessings  he  was  instrumental  in  con- 
ferring, have  been  repaid  to  him  a  thousand-fold ;  but,  amid 
all  the  honors  of  rank  and  station  which  have  since  been 
heaped  upon  L  m,  and  which  he  has  so  well  earned,  he  can 
have  no  reminiscence  more  gratifying  to  his  heart  than  that 
connected  with  The  Black  Veil. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

THE  STEAM  EXCURSION. 

Mr.  Percy  Noakes  was  a  law  student,  inhabiting  a  set  of 
chambers  on  the  fourth  floor,  in  one  of  those  houses  in 
Gray's-inn-square  which  command  an  extensive  view  of  the 
gardens,  and  their  usual  adjuncts — flaunting  nursery-maids, 
and  town-made  children,  with  parenthetical  legs.  Mr.  Percy 
Noakes  was  what  is  generally  termed — a  devilish  good 
fellow.''  He  had  a  large  circle  of  acquaintance,  and  seldom 
dined  at  his  own  expense.  He  used  to  talk  politics  to  papas, 
flatter  the  vanity  of  mrma  3,  do  the  amiable  to  their  daughters, 
make  pleasure  engager.  ent3  with  their  sons,  and  romp  with 
the  younger  branches.  Like  those  paragons  of  perfection, 
advertising  footmen  out  of  place,  he  was  always  willing  to 
make  himself  generally  useful."  If  any  old  lady,  whose  son 
was  in  India,  gave  a  ball,  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  was  master  of 
the  ceremonies  ;  if  any  young  lady  made  a  stolen  match,  Mr. 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


Percy  Noakes  gave  her  away  ;  if  a  juvenile  wife  presented  hei 
husband  with  a  blooming  cherub,  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  was 
either  godfather,  or  deputy-godfather  ;  and  if  any  member  of 
a  friend's  family  died,  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  was  invariably  to  be 
seen  in  the  second  mourning  coach,  with  a  white  handkerchief 
to  his  eyes,  sobbing — to  use  his  own  appropriate  and  ex- 
pressive description — like  winkin'  !  " 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  that  these  numerous  avocations 
were  rather  calculated  to  interfere  with  Mr.  Percy  Noakes's 
professional  studies.  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  was  perfectly  aware 
of  the  fact,  and  had,  therefore,  after  mature  reflection,  made 
up  his  mind  not  to  study  at  all — a  laudable  determination,  to 
which  he  adhered  in  the  most  praiseworthy  manner.  His 
sitting-room  presented  a  strange  chaos  of  dress-gloves,  boxing- 
gloves,  caricatures,  albums,  invitation-cards,  foils,  cricket- 
bats,  card-board  drawings,  paste,  gum,  and  fifty  other  mis- 
cellaneous articles,  heaped  together  in  the  strangest  confusion. 
He  was  always  making  something  for  somebody,  or  planning 
some  party  of  pleasure,  which  was  his  great  forte.  He 
invariably  spoke  with  astonishing  rapidity  ;  was  smart,  spofiish, 
and  eight-and-twenty. 

"  Splendid  idea,  'pon  my  life  !  "  soliloquized  Mr.  Percy 
Noakes,  over  his  morning's  coffee,  as  his  mind  reverted  to  a 
suggestion  which  had  been  thrown  out  on  the  previous  night, 
by  a  lady  at  whose  house  he  had  spent  the  evening.  "  Glorious 
idea! — Mrs.  Stubbs." 

Yes,  sir,"  replied  a  dirty  old  woman  with  an  inflamed 
countenance,  emerging  from  the  bed-room,  with  a  barrel  of 
dirt  and  cinders. — This  was  the  laundress.  Did  you  call, 
sir  ? " 

"  Oh  !  Mrs.  Stubbs,  I'm  going  out.  If  that  tailor  should 
call  again,  you'd  better  say — you'd  better  say  I'm  out  of  town, 
and  shan't  be  back  for  a  fortnight ;  and  if  that  boot-maker 
should  come,  tell  him  I've  lost  his  address,  or  I'd  have  sent 
him  that  little  amount.  Mind  he  writes  it  down  ;  and  if  Mr. 
Hardy  should  call — you  know  Mr.  Hardy  ?  " 
The  funny  gentleman,  sir  " 

"  Ah  !  the  funny  gentleman.  If  Mr.  Hardy  should  call, 
say  I've  gone  to  Mrs.  Taunton's  about  that  water-party." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

And  if  any  fellow  calls,  and  says  he's  come  about  a 
steamer,  tell  him  to  be  here  at  five  o'olock  this  afternoon, 
Mrs.  Stubbs." 


THE  STEAM  EXCURSION. 


711 


"  Very  well,  sir." 

Mr.  Percy  Noakes  brushed  his  hat,  whisked  the  crumbs 
off  his  inexplicables  with  a  silk  handkerchief,  gave  the  ends 
of  his  hair  a  persuasive  roll  round  his  forefinger,  and  sallied 
forth  for  Mrs.  Taunton's  domicile  in  Great  Marlborough- 
street,  where  she  and  her  daughters  occupied  the  upper  part 
of  a  house.  She  was  a  good-looking  widow  of  fifty,  with  the 
form  of  a  giantess  and  the  mind  of  a  child.  The  pursuit  of 
pleasure,  and  some  means  of  killing  time,  were  the  sole  end 
of  her  existence,.  She  doted  on  her  daughters,  who  were  as 
frivolous  as  herself. 

A  general  exclamation  of  satisfaction  hailed  the  arrival  of 
Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  who  went  through  the  ordinary  salutations, 
and  threw  himself  into  an  easy  chair  near  the  ladies'  work- 
table,  with  the  ease  of  a  regularly  established  friend  of  the 
family.  Mrs.  Taunton  was  busily  engaged  in  planting  im- 
mense bright  bows  on  every  part  of  a  smart  cap  on  which  it 
was  possible  to  stick  one ;  Miss  Emily  Taunton  was  making  a 
watch-guard  ;  Miss  Sophia  was  at  the  piano,  practicing  a  new 
song — poetry  by  the  young  officer,  or  the  police  officer,  or  the 
custom-house  officer,  or  some  other  interesting  amateur. 

"  You  good  creature  !  "  said  Mrs.  Taunton,  addressing  the 
gallant  Percy.  "  You  really  are  a  good  soul  !  You've  come 
about  the  water-party,  I  know." 

"  I  should  rather  suspect  I  had,"  replied  Mr.  Noakes, 
triumphantly.  "  Now,  come  here,  girls,  and  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it."  Miss  Emily  and  Miss  Sophia  advanced  to  the 
table. 

Now,"  continued  Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  "it  seems  to  me 
that  the  best  way  will  be,  to  have  a  committee  of  ten,  to  make 
all  the  arrangements,  and  manage  the  whole  set-out.  Then,  I 
propose  that  the  expenses  shall  be  paid  by  these  ten  fellows 
jointly." 

"  Excellei>t,  indeed  !  "  said  Mrs.  Taunton,  who  highly  ap- 
proved of  this  part  of  the  arrangements. 

Then,  my  plan  is,  that  each  of  these  ten  fellows  shall 
have  the  power  of  asking  five  people.  There  must  be  a  meet 
ing  of  the  committee,  at  my  chambers,  to  make  all  the  arrange- 
ments, and  these  people  shall  be  then  named  ;  every  member 
of  the  committee  shall  have  the  power  of  black-balling  any 
one  who  is  proposed  ;  and  one  black  baU  shall  exclude  that, 
person.  This  will  insure  our  having  a  pleasant  party,  you 
know," 


712 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


What  a  manager  you  are  !  "  interrupted  Mrs.  Taunton 
again. 

"  Charming !  "  said  the  lovely  Emily. 
I  never  did ! ejaculated  Sophia. 

Yes,  I  think  it'll  do,"  replied  Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  who 
was  now  quite  in  his  element.  "I  think  it'll  do.  Then  you 
know  we  shall  go  down  to  the  Nore,  and  back,  and  have  a 
regular  capital  cold  dinner  laid  out  in  the  cabin  before  we 
start,  so  that  everything  may  be  ready  without  any  confusion; 
and  we  shall  have  the  luncli  laid  out,  on  deck,  in  those  little 
tea-garden-looking  concerns  by  the  paddle-boxes — I  don't 
know  what  you  call  'em.  Then,  we  shall  hire  a  steamer  ex- 
pressly for  our  party,  and  a  band,  and  have  the  deck  chalked, 
and  we  shall  be  able  to  dance  quadrilles  all  day  ;  and  then, 
whoever  we  know  that's  musical,  you  know,  why,  they'll  make 
themselves  useful  and  agreeable  ;  and — and — upon  the  w^hole, 
I  really  hope  we  shall  have  a  glorious  day,  you  know  !  " 

The  announcement  of  these  arrangements  was  received 
with  the  utmost  enthusiasm.  Mrs.  Taunton,  Emily,  and 
Sophia,  were  loud  in  their  praises. 

"  Well,  but  tell  me,  Percy,"  said  Mrs.  Taunton,  "  who  are 
the  ten  gentlemen  to  be  1  " 

"  Oh  !  I  know  plenty  of  fellows  who'll  be  delighted  with 
the  scheme,"  replied  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  ;  ^'  of  course  we  shall 
have  " 

"  Mr.  Hardy  !  "  interrupted  the  servant  announcing  a  visi- 
tor. Miss  Sophia  and  Miss  Emily  hastily  assumed  the  most 
interesting  attitudes  that  could  be  adopted  on  so  short  a 
notice. 

How  are  you  ?  "  said  a  stout  gentleman  of  about  forty, 
pausing  at  the  door  in  the  attitude  of  an  awkward  harlequin. 
This  was  Mr.  Hardy,  whom  we  have  before  described,  on  the 
authority  of  Mrs.  Stubbs,  as  the  funny  gentleman."  He 
was  an  Astley-Cooperish  Joe  Miller — a  practical  joker,  im- 
mensely popular  with  married  ladies,  and  a  general  favorite 
with  young  men.  He  was  always  engaged  in  some  pleasure 
excursion  or  other,  and  delighted  in  getting  somebody  into  a 
scrape  on  such  occasions.  He  could  sing  comic  songs,  imitate 
hackney-coachmen  and  fowls,  play  airs  on  his  chin,  and  exe- 
cute concertos  on  the  Jews'-harp.  He  always  eat  and  drank 
most  immoderately,  and  was  the  bosom  friend  of  Mr.  Percy 
Noakes.  He  had  a  red  face,  a  somewhat  husky  voicQ,  and  a 
tremendous  laugh. 


THE  STEAM  EXCURSION, 


How  are  you  ? "  said  this  worthy,  laughing,  as  if  it  were 
the  finest  joke  in  the  world  to  make  a  morning  call,  and  shak- 
ing hands  with  the  ladies  with  as  much  vehemence  as  if  their 
arms  had  been  so  many  pump-handles. 

^'  You're  just  the  very  man  I  wanted,'^  said  Mr.  Percy 
Noakes,  who  proceeded  to  explain  the  cause  of  his  being  in 
requisition. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  "  shouted  Hardy,  after  hearing  the  state- 
ment, and  receiving  a  detailed  account  of  the  proposed  excur- 
sion. "  Oh,  capital !  glorious  !  What  a  day  it  will  be  !  what 
fun  ! — But,  I  say,  when  are  you  going  to  begin  making  the 
arrangements  ?  " 

"  No  time  lilce  the  present — at  once,  if  you  please. 

"  Oh,  charming  !  "  cried  the  ladies.    "  Pray,  do  !  " 

Writing  materials  were  laid  before  Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  and 
the  names  of  the  different  members  of  the  committee  were 
agreed  on,  after  as  much  discussion  between  him  and  Mr. 
Hardy  as  if  the  fate  of  nations  had  depended  on  their  appoint- 
ment. It  was  then  agreed  that  a  meeting  should  take  place 
at  Mr.  Percy  Noakes's  chambers  on  the  ensuing  Wednesday 
evening  at  eight  o'clock,  and  the  visitors  departed. 

Wednesday  evening  arrived ;  eight  o'clock  came,  and 
eight  members  of  the  committee  were  punctual  in  their  atten- 
dance. Mr.  Loggins,  th^  solicitor,  of  Boswell-court,  sent  an 
excuse,  and  Mr.  Samuel  Briggs,  the  ditto  of  Furnival's  Inn, 
sent  his  brother  :  much  to  his  (the  brother's)  satisfaction,  and 
greatly  to  the  discomfiture  of  Mr.  Percy  Noakes.  Between 
the  Briggses  and  the  Tauntons  there  existed  a  degree  of  im- 
placable hatred,  quite  unprecedented.  The  animosity  betw^een 
the  Montagues  and  the  Capulets,  was  nothing  to  that  which 
prevailed  between  these  two  illustrious  houses.  Mrs.  Briggs 
was  a  widow,  with  three  daughters  and  two  sons  ;  Mr.  Samuel, 
the  eldest,  was  an  attorne}^,  and  Mr.  Alexander,  the  youngest, 
was  under  articles  to  his  brother.  They  resided  in  Portland- 
street,  Oxford-street,  and  moved  in  the  same  orbit  as  the 
Tauntons — hence  their  mutual  dislike.  If  the  Miss  Briggses 
appeared  in  smart  bonnets,  the  Miss  Tauntons  eclipsed  them 
with  smarter.  If  Mrs.  Taunton  appeared  in  a  cap  of  all  the 
colors  of  the  rainbow,  Mrs.  Briggs  forthwith  mounted  a  toque, 
with  all  the  patterns  of  the  kaleidoscope.  If  Miss  Sophia 
Taunton  learnt  a  new  song,  two  of  tlie  Miss  Briggses  came 
out  with  a  new  duet.  The  Tauntons  had  once  gained  a  tem- 
porary triumph  with  the  assistance  of  a  harp,  but  the  Briggses 


7U 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


brought  three  guitars  into  the  field,  and  effectually  routed  the 
enemy.    There  was  no  end  to  the  rivalry  between  them. 

Now,  as  Mr.  Samuel  Briggs  was  a  mere  machine,  a  sort  of 
self-acting  legal  walking-stick  \  and  as  the  party  was  known 
to  have  originated,  however  remotely,  with  Mrs.  Taunton,  the 
female  branches  of  the  Briggs  family  had  arranged  that  Mr. 
Alexander  should  attend,  instead  of  his  brother ;  and  as  the 
said  Mr.  Alexander  was  deservedly  celebrated  for  possessing 
all  the  pertinacity  of  a  bankruptcy-court  attorney,  combined 
with  the  obstinacy  of  that  useful  animal  which  browses  on  the 
thistle,  he  required  but  little  tuition.  He  was  especially  en- 
joined to  make  himself  as  disagreeable  as  possible  ;  and, 
above  all,  to  black-ball  the  Tauntons  at  every  hazard. 

The  proceedings  of  the  evening  were  opened  by  Mr. 
Percy  Noakes.  After  successfully  urging  on  the  gentlemen 
present  the  propriety  of  their  mixing  some  brandy-and-water, 
he  briefly  stated  the  object  of  the  meeting,  and  concluded  by 
observing  that  the  first  step  must  be  the  selection  of  a  chair- 
man, necessarily  possessing  some  arbitrary — he  trusted  not 
unconstitutional — powers,  to  whom  the  personal  direction  of 
the  whole  of  the  arrangements  (subject  to  the  approval  of  the 
committee)  should  be  confided.  A  pale  young  gentleman,  in 
a  green  stock  and  spectacles  of  the  same,  a  member  of  the 
honorable  society  of  the  Inner  Temple,  immediately  rose  for 
the  purpose  of  proposing  Mr.  Percy  Noakes.  He  had  known 
him  long,  and  this  he  would  say,  that  a  more  honorable,  a 
more  excellent,  or  a  better-hearted  fellow,  never  existed. — 
(Hear,  hear  !)  The  young  gentleman,  who  was  a  member  of 
a  debating  society,  took  this  opportunity  of  entering  into  an 
examination  of  the  state  of  the  English  law,  from  the  days  of 
William  the  Conqueror  down  to  the  present  period  ;  he  briefly 
adverted  to  the  code  established  by  the  ancient  Druids ; 
slightly  glancing  at  the  principles  laid  down  by  the  Athenian 
law-givers ;  and  concluded  with  a  most  glowing  eulogium  on 
picnics  and  constitutional  rights. 

Mr.  Alexander  Briggs  opposed  the  motion.  He  had  the 
highest  esteem  for  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  as  an  individual,  but  he 
did  consider  that  he  ought  not  to  be  intrusted  with  these 
immense  powers — (oh  !  oh  !) — He  believed  that  in  the  pro- 
posed capacity  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  would  not  act  fairly,  impar- 
tially, or  honorably  ;  but  he  begged  it  to  be  distinctly  under- 
stood, that  he  said  this,  without  the  slightest  personal  disre- 
spect.   Mr.  Hardy  defended  his  honorable  friend,  in*a  voice 


THE  STEAM  EXCURSION. 


rendered  partially  unintelligible  by  emotion  and  brandy-and- 
water.  The  proposition  was  put  to  the  vote,  and  there  ap- 
pearing to  be  only  one  dissentient  voice,  Mr.  Percy  Noakes 
was  declared  duly  elected,  and  took  the  chair  accordingly. 

The  business  of  the  meeting  now  proceeded  with  rapidity 
The  chairman  delivered  in  his  estimate  of  the  probable  ex- 
pense of  the  excursion,  and  every  one  present  subscribed  his 
portion  thereof.  The  question  was  put  that  "  The  Endeavor 
be  hired  for  the  occasion  ;  Mr.  Alexander  Briggs  moved  as 
an  amendment,  that  the  word  ^'  Fly  be  substituted  for  the 
word  "  Endeavour;"  but  after  some  debate  consented  to  with- 
draw his  opposition.  The  important  ceremony  of  balloting 
then  commenced.  A  tea-caddy  was  placed  on  a  table  in  a 
dark  corner  of  the  apartment,  and  every  one  was  provided 
with  two  backgammon  men,  one  black  and  one  white. 

The  chairman  with  great  solemnity  then  read  the  follow- 
ing list  of  the  guests  whom  he  proposed  to  introduce  : — Mrs. 
Taunton  and  two  daughters,  Mr.  Wizzle,  Mr,  Simson.  The 
names  were  respectively  balloted  for,  and  Mrs.  Taunton  and 
her  daughters  were  declared  to  be  black-balled.  Mr.  Percy 
Noakes  and  Mr.  Hardy  exchanged  glances. 

Is  your  list  prepared,  Mr.  Briggs  ? "  inquired  the  chair- 
man. 

It  is,"  replied  Alexander,  delivering  in  the  following  : — 
Mrs.  Briggs  and  three  daughters,  Mr.  Samuel  Brings.  The 
previous  ceremony  was  repeated,  and  Mrs.  Briggs  and  three 
daughters  were  declared  to  be  black-balled.  Mr.  Alexander 
Briggs  looked  rather  foolish,  and  the  remainder  of  the  com- 
pany appeared  somewhat  overawed  by  the  mysterious  nature 
of  the  proceedings. 

The  balloting  proceeded ;  but,  one  little  circumstance 
which  ]\^r.  Percy  Noakes  had  not  originally  forseen,  prevented 
the  system  from  working  quite  as  well  as  he  had  anticipated. 
Everybody  was  black-balled.  Mr.  Alexander  Briggs,  by  way 
of  retaliation,  exercised  his  power  of  exclusion  in  every 
instance,  and  the  result  was,  that  after  three  hours  had  been 
consumed  in  hard  balloting,  the  names  of  only  three  gentle- 
men were  found  to  have  been  agreed  to.  In  this  dilemma 
what  was  to  be  done  ?  either  the  whole  plan  must  fall  to  the 
ground,  or  a  compromise  must  be  effected.  The  latter  alter- 
native was  preferable ;  and  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  therefore  pro- 
posed that  the  form  of  balloting  should  be  dispensed  with, 
and  that  every  gentleman  should  merely  be  required  to  state 


7l6  SKETCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 

whom  he  intended  to  bring.  The  proposal  was  acceded  to ; 
the  Tauntons  and  the  Briggses  were  reinstated  ;  and  the  party 
was  formed. 

The  next  Wednesday  was  fixed  for  the  eventful  day,  and 
it  was  unanimously  resolved  that  every  member  of  the  com- 
mittee should  wear  a  piece  of  blue  sarsenet  ribbon  round  his 
left  arm.  It  appeared  from  the  statement  of  Mr.  Percy 
Noakes,  that  the  boat  belonged  to  the  General  Steam  Nav- 
igation Company,  and  was  then  lying  off  the  Custom-house ; 
and,  as  he  proposed  that  the  dinner  and  wines  should  be  pro- 
vided by  an  eminent  city  purveyor,  it  was  arranged  that  Mr, 
Percy  Noakes  should  be  on  board  by  seven  o'clock  to  super- 
intend the  arrangements,  and  that  the  remaining  members  of 
the  committee,  together  with  the  company  generally,  should 
be  expected  to  join  her  by  nine  o'clock.  More  brandy-and- 
water  was  despatched  ;  several  speeches  were  made  by  the 
different  law  students  present ;  thanks  were  voted  to  the 
chairman ;  and  the  meeting  separated. 

The  weather  had  been  beautiful  up  to  this  period,  and 
beautiful  it  continued  to  be.  Sunday  passed  over,  and  Mr. 
Percy  Noakes  became  unusually  fidgety — rushing,  constantly, 
to  and  from  the  Steam  Packet  Wharf,  to  the  astonishment  of 
the  clerks,  and  the  great  emolument  of  the  Holborn  cabmen. 
Tuesday  arrived,  and  the  anxiety  of  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  knew 
no  bounds^.  He  was  every  instant  running  to  the  window,  to 
look  out  for  clouds  ;  and  Mr.  Hardy  astonished  the  whole 
square  by  practising  a  new  comic  song  for  the  occasion,  in 
the  chairman's  chambers. 

Uneasy  were  the  slumbers  of  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  that  night ; 
he  tossed  and  tumbled  about,  and  had  confused  dreams  of 
steamers  starting  off,  and  gigantic  clocks  with  the  hands 
pointing  to  a  quarter-past  nine,  and  the  ugly  face  of  Mr. 
Alexander  Briggs  looking  over  the  boat's  side,  and  grinning, 
as  if  in  derision  of  his  fruitless  attempts  to  move.  He  made 
a  violent  effort  to  get  on  board,  and  awoke.  The  bright  sun 
was  shining  cheerfully  into  the  bed-room,  and  Mr.  Percy 
Noakes  started  up  for  his  watch,  in  the  dreadful  expectation 
of  finding  his  worst  dreams  realized. 

It  was  just  five  o'clock.  He  calculated  the  time — he 
should  be  a  good  half-hour  dressing  himself  ;  and  as  it  was  a 
lovely  morning,  and  the  tide  would  be  then  running  down,  he 
would  walk  leisurely  to  Strand-lane,  and  have  a  boat  to  the 
Custom-house. 


THE  STEAM  EXCURSION. 


He  dressed  himself,  took  a  hasty  apology  for  a  breakfast, 
and  sallied  forth.  The  streets  looked  as  lonely  and  deserted 
as  if  they  had  been  crowded,  overnight,  for  the  last  time. 
Here  and  there,  an  early  apprentice,  with  quenched -looking 
sleepy  eyes,  was  taking  down  the  shutters  of  a  shop ;  and  a 
policeman  or  milk-woman  might  occasionally  be  seen  pacing 
slowly  along  ;  but  the  servants  had  not  yet  begun  to  clean 
the  doors,  or  light  the  kitchen  fires,  and  London  looked  the 
picture  of  desolation.  At  the  corner  of  a  by-street,  near 
Temple-bar,  was  stationed  a  street-breakfast."  The  coffee 
was  boiling  over  a  charcoal  fire,  and  large  slices  of  bread  and 
butter  were  piled  one  upon  the  other,  like  deals  in  a  timber- 
yard.  The  company  were  seated  on  a  form,  which,  with  a 
view  both  to  security  and  comfort,  was  placed  against  a 
neighboring  wall.  Two  young  men,  whose  uproarious  mirth 
and  disordered  dress  bespoke  the  conviviality  of  the  preced- 
ing evening,  were  treating  three  ladies  "  and  an  Irish, 
laborer.  A  little  sweep  was  standing  at  a  short  distance, 
casting  a  longing  eye  at  the  tempting  delicacies  ;  and  a  police- 
man was  watching  the  group  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street.  The  wan  looks,  and  gaudy  finery  of  the  thinly-clad 
women  contrasted  as  strangely  with  the  gay  sun-light,  as  did 
their  forced  merriment  with  the  boisterous  hilarity  of  the  two 
young  men,  who,  now  and  then,  varied  their  amusements  by 
bonneting"  the  proprietor  of  this  itinerant  coffee-house. 

Mr.  Percy  Noakes  walked  briskly  by,  and  when  he  turned 
down  Strand-lane,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  glistening 
water,  he  thought  he  had  never  felt  so  important  or  so  happy 
in  his  life. 

"  Boat,  sir  ?  "  cried  one  of  the  three  watermen  who  were 
mopping  out  their  boats,  and  all  whistling.       Boat,  sir  1  " 

No,"  replied  Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  rather  sharply  ;  for  the 
inquiry  was  not  made  in  a  manner  at  all  suitable  to  his  dignity. 

Would  you  prefer  a  wessel,  sir?"  inquired  another,  to 
the  infinite  delight  of  the  "  Jack-in-the-water." 

Mr.  Percy  Noakes  replied  wdth  a  look  of  supreme  con- 
tempt. 

"  Did  you  want  to  be  put  on  board  a  steamer,  sir  t  "  in- 
quired an  old  fireman-waterman,  very  confidentially.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  faded  red  suit,  just  the  color  of  the  cover  of  a 
very  old  Court-guide. 

"  Yes,  make  haste  —  the  Endeavour  —  off  the  Custom- 
house." 


7i8 


SKE  TCHES  B  V  BOZ. 


"  Endeavour  !  "  cried  the  man  who  had  convulsed  tho 
"  Jack  before.  "  Vy,  I  see  the  Endeavour  go  up  half  an 
hour  ago." 

"  So  did  I,"  said  another ;  "  and  I  should  think  she'd  gone 
down  by  this  time,  for  she's  a  precious  sight  too  full  of  ladies 
and  gen'lemen." 

Mr.  Percy  Noakes  affected  to  disregard  th^ese  represen- 
tations, and  stepped  into  the  boat,  which  the  old  man,  by  dint 
of  scrambling,  and  shoving,  and'  grating,  had  brought  up  to 
the  causeway.  Shove  her  off !  "  cried  Mr.  Percy  Noakes, 
and  away  the  boat  glided  down  the  river  ;  Mr.  Percy  Noakes 
seated  on  the  recently  mopped  seat,  and  the  watermen  at  the 
stairs  offering  to  bet  him  any  reasonable  sum  that  he'd  never 
reach  the  "  Custum-us." 

"  Here  she  is,  by  Jove !  "  said  the  delighted  Percy,  as 
they  ran  alongside  the  Endeavour. 

"  Hold  hard  !  "  cried  the  steward  over  the  side,  and  Mr. 
Percy  Noakes  jumped  on  board. 

Hope  you  will  find  everything  as  you  wished,  sir.  "  She 
looks  uncommon  well  this  morning." 

She  does,  indeed,"  replied  the  manager,  in  a  state  of 
ecstasy  which  it  is  impossible  to  describe.  The  deck  was 
scrubbed,  and  the  seats  were  scrubbed,  and  there  was  a  bench 
for  the  band,  and  a  place  for  dancing,  and  a  pile  of  camp- 
stools,  and  an  awning  ;  and  then,  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  bustled 
down  below,  and  there  were  the  pastrycook's  men,  and  the 
steward's  wife,  laying  out  the  dinner  on  two  tables  the  \vhole 
length  of  the  cabin  ;  and  then  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  took  off  his 
coat  and  rushed  backwards  and  forwards,  doing  nothing,  but 
quite  convinced  he  was  assisting  everybody  ;  and  the  steward's 
wife  laughed  till  she  cried,  and  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  panted 
with  the  violence  of  his  exertions.  And  then  the  bell  at 
Londonbridge  wharf  rang ;  and  a  Margate  boat  was  just 
starting ;  and  a  Gravesend  boat  was  just  starting,  and  people 
shouted,  and  porters  ran  down  the  steps  with  luggage  that 
would  crush  any  men  but  porters ;  and  sloping  boards,  with 
bits  of  ^vood  nailed  on  them  were  placed  between  the  outside 
boat  and  the  inside  boat ;  and  the  passengers  ran  along  them, 
and  looked  like  so  many  fowls  coming  out  of  an  area,  and 
then,  the  bell  ceased,  and  the  boards  were  taken  away,  and 
the  boats  started,  and  the  whole  scene  was  one  of  the  most 
delightful  bustle  and  confusion. 

The  time  wore  on  ;  half-past  eight  o'clock  arrived  ,  the 


THE  STEAM  EXCURSION, 


pastrycook's  men  went  ashore  ;  the  dinner  was  completely 
laid  out ;  and  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  locked  the  principal  cabin, 
and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket,  in  order  that  it  might  be 
suddenly  disclosed,  in  all  its  magnificence,  to  the  eyes  of  the 
astonished  company.  The  band  came  on  board,  and  so  did 
the  wine. 

Ten  minutes  to  nine,  and  the  committee  embarked  in  a 
body.  There  was  Mr.  Hardy,  in  a  blue  jacket  and  waistcoat, 
white  trousers,  silk  stockings,  and  pumps' — in  full  aquatic 
costume,  with  a  straw^  hat  on  his  head,  and  an  immense 
telescope  under  his  arm  ;  and  there  was  the  young  gentleman 
with  the  green  spectacles,  in  nankeen  inexplicables,  with  a 
ditto  waistcoat  and  bright  buttons,  like  the  pictures  of  Paul — 
not  the  saint,  but  he  of  Virginia  notoriety.  The  remainder  of 
the  committee,  dressed  in  white  hats,  light  jackets,  waistcoats, 
and  trousers,  looked  something  between  waiters  and  West 
India  planters. 

Nine  o'clock  struck,  and  the  company  arrived  in  shoals. 
Mr.  Samuel  Briggs,  Mrs.  Briggs,  and  the  Misses  Briggs,  made 
their  appearance  in  a  smart  private  wherry.  The  three  guitars, 
in  their  respective  dark  green  cases,  were  carefully  stowed 
away  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  accompanied  by  two  immense 
portfolios  of  music,  which  it  would  take  at  least  a  week's  in- 
cessant playing  to  get  through.  The  Tauntons  arrived  at  the 
same  moment  with  more  music,  and  a  lion — a  gentleman  with 
a  bass  voice  and  an  incipient  red  mustache.  The  colors  of 
the  Taunton  party  were  pink  ;  those  of  the  Briggses  a  light 
blue.  The  Tauntons  had  artificial  flowers  in  their  bonnets  ; 
here  the  Briggses  gained  a  decided  advantage — they  wore 
feathers. 

"How  d'ye  do,  dear?"  said  the  Misses  Briggs  to  the 
Misses  Taunton.  (The  word  "  dear "  among  girls  is  fre- 
quently synonymous  with  wretch.") 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you,  dear,"  replied  the  Misses  Taunton 
to  the  Misses  Briggs ;  and  then,  there  was  such  a  kissing,  and 
congratulating,  and  shaking  of  hands,  as  might  have  induced 
one  to  suppose  that  the  two  families  were  the  best  friends  in 
the  world,  instead  of  each  wishing  the  other  overboard,  as 
they  most  sincerely  did, 

Mr.  Percy  Noakes  received  the  visitors,  and  bowed  to  the 
strange  gentleman,  as  if  he  should  like  to  know  who  he  was. 
This  was  just  what  Mrs.  Taunton  wanted.    Here  was  an  op  ' 
portunity  to  astonish  the  Briggses. 
31 


720 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


"  Oh !  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  general  of  the  Taun- 
ton party,  with  a  careless  air. — "  Captain  Helves — Mr.  Percy 
Noakes — Mrs.  Briggs — Captain  Helves." 

Mr.  Percy  Noakes  bowed  very  low  ;  the  gallant  captain 
did  the  same  with  all  due  ferocity,  and  the  Briggses  were 
clearly  overcome. 

"  Our  friend,  Mr.  Wizzle,  being  unfortunately  prevented 
from  coming,  resumed  Mrs.  Taunton,  "  I  did  myself  the 
pleasure  of  bringing  the  captain,  w^hose  musical  talents  J 
knew  would  be  a  great  acquisition." 

"  In  the  name  of  the  committee  I  have  to  thank  you  foi 
doing  so,  and  to  offer  you  welcome,  sir,"  replied  Percy. 
(Here  the  scraping  was  renewed.)  "  But  pray  be  seated— 
won't  you  walk  aft  .^^  Captain,  will  you  conduct  Miss  Taun- 
ton ? — Miss  Briggs,  will  you  allow  me  ?  " 

"  Where  could  they  have  picked  up  that  military  man  ?  " 
inquired  Mrs.  Briggs  of  Miss  Kate  Briggs,  as  they  followed 
the  little  party. 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  replied  Miss  Kate,  bursting  with 
vexation  ;  for  the  very  fierce  air  with  which  the  gallant  captain 
regarded  the  company,  had  impressed  her  with  a  high  sense 
of  his  importance. 

Boat  after  boat  came  alongside,  and  guest  after  guest 
arrived.  The  invites  had  been  excellently  arranged :  Mr. 
Percy  Noakes  having  considered  it  as  important  that  the 
number  of  young  men  should  exactly  tally  with  that  of  the 
young  ladies,  as  that  the  quantity  of  knives  on  board  should 
be  in  precise  proportion  to  the  forks. 

*'  Now,  is  every  one  on  board  ? "  inquired  Mr.  Percy 
Noakes.  The  committee  (who,  with  their  bits  of  blue  ribbon, 
looked  as  if  they  were  all  going  to  be  bled)  bustled  about  to 
ascertain  the  fact,  and  reported  that  they  might  safely  start. 

"  Go  on  !  "  cried  the  master  of  the  boat  from  the  top  of 
one  of  the  paddle-boxes. 

Go  on  !  "  echoed  the  boy,  who  was  stationed  over  the 
hatchway  to  pass  the  directions  down  to  the  engineer  ;  and 
away  went  the  vessel  with  that  agreeable  noise  which  is 
peculiar  to  steamers,  and  which  is  composed  of  a  mixture  of 
creaking,  gushing,  clanging,  and  snorting. 

"  Hoi — oi — oi — oi — oi — oi — o — i — i — i !  "  shouted  half-a- 
dozen  voices  from  a  boat,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  astern. 

"Ease  Her!  "  cried  the  captain:  "do  these  people  be 
long  to  us,  sir  t  " 


THE  STEAM  EXCURSION. 


Noakes/'  exclaimed  Hardy,  who  had  been  looking  at 
every  object,  far  and  near,  through  the  large  telescope,  "  it's 
the  Fleetwoods  and  the  Wakefields — and  two  children  with 
them,  by  Jove  1  " 

"  What  a  shame  to  bring  children ! "  said  everybody ; 
"  how  very  inconsiderate  !  " 

"  I  say  it  would  be  a  good  joke  to  pretend  not  to  see  'em, 
w^ouldn't  it  ?  "  suggested  Hardy,  to  the  immense  delight  of 
the  company  generally.  A  council  of  war  was  hastily  held, 
and  it  was  resolved  that  the  new  comers  should  be  taken  on 
board,  on  Mr.  Hardy's  solemnly  pledging  himself  to  tease 
the  children  during  the  whole  of  the  day. 

"  Stop  her  !  "  cried  the  captain. 

"Stop  her  I"  repeated  the  boy;  whizz  went  the  steam, 
and  all  the  young  ladies,  as  in  duty  bound,  screamed  in  con- 
cert. They  were  only  appeased  by  the  assurance  of  the  mar- 
tial Helves,  that  the  escape  of  steam  consequent  on  stopping 
a  vessel  was  seldom  attended  with  any  great  loss  of  human 
life. 

Two  men  ran  to  the  side  ;  and  after  some  shouting  and 
swearing,  and  angling  for  the  wherry  with  a  boat-hook,  Mr. 
Fleetwood  and  Mrs.  Fleetwood,  and  Master  Fleetwood,  and 
Mr.  Wakefield,  and  ^  Mrs.  Wakefield,  and  Miss  Wakefield, 
were  safely  deposited  on  the  deck.  The  girl  was  about  six 
years  old,  the  boy  about  four ;  the  former  was  dressed  in  a 
white  frock  with  a  pink  sash  and  dog's-eared-looking  little 
spencer  :  a  straw  bonnet  and  green  veil,  six  inches  by  three  and 
a  half  ;  the  latter  was  attired  for  the  occasion  in  a  nankeen 
frock,  between  the  bottom  of  which,  and  the  top  of  his  plaid 
socks,  a  considerable  portion  of  two  small  mottled  legs  was 
discernible.  He  had  a  light  blue  cap  with  a  gold  band  and 
tassel  on  his  head,  and  a  damp  piece  of  gingerbread  in  his 
hand,  with  which  he  had  slightly  embossed  his  countenance. 

The  boat  once  more  started  off ;  the  band  played  Off 
she  goes  ;  "  the  major  part  of  the  company  conversed  cheer- 
fully in  groups ;  and  the  old  gentlemen  walked  up  and  down 
the  deck  in  pairs,  as  perseveringly  and  gravely  as  if  they 
were  doing  a  match  against  time  for  an  immense  stake.  They 
ran  briskly  down  the  Pool ;  the  gentlemen  pointed  out  the 
Docks,  the  Thames  Police-ofiice,  and  other  elegant  public 
edifices  ;  and  the  young  ladies  exhibited  a  proper  display  of 
horror  at  the  appearance  of  the  coal-whippers  and  ballast- 
heavers.    Mr.  Hardy  told  stories  to  the  married  ladies,  at 


722 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


';\'hich  they  laughed  very  much  in  their  pocket-handkeichietSj 
and  hit  him  on  the  knuckles  with  their  fans,  declaring  him 
to  be  a  naughty  man  —  a  shocking  creature"  —  and  so 
forth  ;  and  Captain  Helves  gave  slight  descriptions  of  bat- 
tles and  duels,  with  a  most  bloodthirsty  air,  which  made  him 
the  admiration  of  the  women,  and  the  envy  of  the  men. 
Quadrilling  commenced  ;  Captain  Helves  danced  one  set  with 
Miss  Emily  Taunton,  and  another  set  with  Miss  vSophia  Taun- 
ton. Mrs.  Taunton  was  in  ecstasies.  The  victory  appeared 
to  be  complete  ;  but  alas  !  the  inconstancy  of  man  !  Having 
performed  this  necessary  duty,  he  attached  himself  solely  to 
Miss  Julia  Briggs,  with  whom  he  danced  no  less  than  three 
sets  consecutively,  and  from  \vhose  side  he  evinced  no 
intention  of  stirring  for  the  remainder  of  the  day. 

Mr.  Hardy,  having  played  one  or  tw^o  very  brilliant  fan- 
tasias on  the  Jews'-harp,  and  having  frequently  repeated  the 
exquisitely  amusing  joke  of  slyly  chalking  a  large  cross  on 
the  back  of  some  member  of  the  committee,  Mr.  Percy  Noakes 
expressed  his  hope  that  some  of  their  musical  friends  would 
oblige  the  company  by  a  display  of  their  abilities. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said  in  a  very  insinuating  manner,  "  Cap- 
tain Helves  will  oblige  us  ?  "  Mrs.  Taunton's  countenance 
lighted  up,  for  the  captain  only  sang  duets,  and  couldn't  sing 
them  with  anybody  but  one  of  her  daughters. 

"  Really,"  said  that  warlike  individual,  "  I  should  be  very 
happy,  but — " 

"  Oh  !  pray  do,"  cried  all  the  young  ladies. 

"  Miss  Sophia,  have  you  any  objection  to  join  in  a  duet  " 

"  Oh  !  not  the  slightest,"  returned  the  young  lady,  in  a  tone 
which  clearly  showed  she  had  the  greatest  possible  objection. 

"  Shall  I  accompany  you,  dear.^  "  inquired  one  of  the  Miss 
Briggses,  wdth  the  bland  intention  of  spoiHng  the  effect. 

"  Very  much  obliged  to  you.  Miss  Briggs,"  sharply  retorted 
Mrs.  Taunton,  who  saw  through  the  manoeuvre  ;  my  daugh- 
ters always  sing  without  accompaniments." 

"  And  without  voices,"  tittered  Mrs.  Briggs,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Taunton,  reddening,  for  she  guessed 
the  tenor  of  the  observation,  though  she  had  not  heard  it 
clearly — Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  for  some  people,  if 
their  voices  were  not  quite  so  audible  as  they  are  to  other 
people." 

And,  perhaps,  if  gentlemen  who  are  kidnapped  to  pay 
attention  to  some  persons'  daughters,  had  not  sufficient  dis* 


THE  STEAM  EXCURSION. 


723 


cernment  to  pay  attention  to  other  persons'  daughters,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Briggs,  some  persons  would  not  be  so  ready  to 
display  that  ill-temper  which,  thank  God,  distinguishes  them 
from  other  persons." 

''Persons  !  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Taunton. 
Persons,"  replied  Mrs.  Briggs. 

"  Insolence  !  " 

"  Creature ! " 

"  Hush  !  hush !  "  interrupted  Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  who  was 
one  of  the  very  few  by  whom  this  dialogue  had  been  over- 
heard.   "  Hush  ! — pray,  silence  for  the  duet." 

After  a  great  deal  of  preparatory  crowing  and  humming, 
the  captain  began  the  following  duet  from  the  opera  of  Paul 
and  Virginia,"  in  that  grunting  tone  in  which  a  man  gets 
down.  Heaven  knows  where,  with  the  remotest  chance  of  ever 
getting  up  again.  This,  in  private  circles,  is  frequently  des- 
ignated   a  bass  voice." 

*'  See  (sung  the  captain)  from  o — ce — an  ri — sing 
Bright  flames  the  or — b  of  d — ay. 
From  yon  gro — ove,  the  varied  so — ongs — " 

Here,  the  singer  was  interrupted  by  varied  cries  of  the 
most  "dreadful  description,  proceeding  from  some  grove  in  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  the  starboard  paddle-box. 

My  child  !  "  screamed  Mrs.  Fleetwood.  "  My  child  !  it 
is  his  voice — I  know  it." 

Mr.  Fleetwood,  accompanied  by  several  gentlemen,  here 
rushed  to  the  quarter  from  whence  the  noise  proceeded,  and 
an  exclamation  of  horror  burst  from  the  company ;  the  gen- 
eral impression  being,  that  the  little  innocent  had  either  got 
his  head  in  the  water,  or  his  legs  in  the  machinery. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  shouted  the  agonized  father,  as  he 
returned  with  the  child  in  his  arms. 

Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  "  screamed  the  small  sufferer  again. 

*'What  is  the  matter,  dear.?"  inquired  the  father  once 
more — hastily  stripping  off  the  nankeen  frock,  for  the  purpose 
of  ascertaining  whether  the  child  had  one  bone  which  was  not 
smashed  to  pieces. 

Oh  !  oh  !— I'm  so  frightened  !  " 

"  What  at,  dear  ?  what  at  ?  "  said  the  mother,  soothing  the 
sweet  infant. 

"Oh  !  he's  been  making  such  dreadful  faces  at  me,"  cried 
the  boy,  relapsing,  into  convulsions  at  the  bare  recollection. 
"  He  ! — who  }  "  cried  everybody,  crowdings  round  him. 


724 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


^^Oh! — him  ! replied  the  child,  pointing  at  Hardy,  who 
affected  to  be  the  most  concerned  of  the  whole  group. 

The  real  state  of  the  case  at  once  flashed  upon  the  minds 
of  all  present,  with  the  exception  of  the  Fleetwoods  and  tha 
Wakefields.  The  facetious  Hardy,  in  fulfilment  of  his  prom- 
ise, had  watched  the  child  to  a  remote  part  of  the  vessel,  and, 
suddenly  appearing  before  him  with  the  most  awful  contortions 
of  visage,  had  produced  his  paroxysm  of  terror.  Of  course,  he 
now  observed  that  it  was  hardly  necessary  for  him  to  deny  the 
accusation ;  and  the  unfortunate  little  victim  was  accordingly 
led  below,  after  receiving  sundry  thumps  on  the  head  from 
both  his  parents,  for  having  the  wickedness  to  tell  a  story. 

This  little  interruption  having  been  adjusted,  the  captain 
resumed,  and  Miss  Emily  chimed  in,  in  due  course.  The  duet 
was  loudly  applauded,  and,  certainly,  the  perfect  independence 
of  the  parties  deserved  great  commendation.  Miss  Emily 
sung  her  part,  without  the  slightest  reference  to  the  captain  ; 
and  the  captain  sang  so  loud,  that  he  had  not  the  slightest 
idea  what  was  being  done  by  his  partner.  After  having  gone 
through  the  last  few  eighteen  or  nineteen  bars  by  himself, 
therefore,  he  acknowledged  the  plaudits  of  the  circle  with  that 
air  of  self-denial  which  men  usually  assume  when  they  think 
they  have  done  something  to  astonish  the  company. 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  who  had  just  ascended 
from  the  fore-cabin,  where  he  had  been  busily  engaged  in  de- 
canting the  wine,  "  if  the  Misses  Briggs  will  oblige  us  with 
something  before  dinner,  I  am  sure  we  shall  be  very  much  de- 
lighted." 

One  of  tkose  hums  of  admiration  followed  the  suggestion, 
which  one  frequently  hears  in  society,  when  nobody  has  the 
most  distant  notion  what  he  is  expressing  his  approval  of. 
The  three  Misses  Briggs  looked  modestly  at  their  mamma,  and 
the  mamma  looked  approvingly  at  her  daughters,  and  Mrs. 
Taunton  looked  scornfully  at  all  of  them.  The  Misses  Briggs 
asked  for  their  guitars,  and  several  gentlemen  seriously 
damaged  the  cases  in  their  anxiety  to  present  them.  Then, 
there  was  a  very  interesting  production  of  three  little  keys  for 
the  aforesaid  cases,  and  a  melodramatic  expression  of  horror 
at  finding  a  string  broken  ;  and  a  vast  deal  of  screwing  and 
tightening,  and  winding,  and  tuning,  during  which  Mrs.  Briggs 
expatiated  to  those  near  her  on  the  immense  difficulty  of  play- 
ing a  guitar,  and  hinted  at  the  wondrous  proficiency  of  her 
daughters  in  that  mystic  art.    Mrs.  Taunton  whispered  to  a 


THE  STEAM  EXCURSION. 


neighbor  that  it  was  *'  quite  sickening ! "  and  the  Misses 
Taunton  looked  as  if  they  knew  how  to  play,  but  disdained  to 
do  it. 

At  length,  the  Misses  Briggs  began  in  real  earnest.  It 
was  a  new  Spanish  composition,  for  three  voices  and  three 
guitars.  The  effect  was  electrical.  All  eyes  were  turned  upon 
the  captain,  who  was  reported  to  have  once  passed  through 
Spain  with  his  regiment,  and  who  must  be  well  acquainted 
with  the  national  music.  He  was  in  raptures.  This  was 
sufficient  ;  the  trio  was  encored  ;  the  applause  was  universal  ; 
and  never  had  the  Tauntons  suffered  such  a  complete  defeat. 

"  Bravo  !  bravo  !  "  ejaculated  the  captain  ; — "  Bravo !  " 

"  Pretty  !  isn't  it,  sir  t  "  inquired  Mr.  Samuel  Briggs,  with 
the  air  of  a  self-satisfied  showman.  By  the  bye,  these  were  the 
first  words  he  had  been  heard  to  utter  since  he  left  Boswell- 
court  the  evening  before. 

De — lightful  1 returned  the  captain,  with  a  flourish,  and 
a  military  cough  ; — "  de — lightful  !  " 

"  Sweet  instrument  ? said  an  old  gentleman  with  a  bald 
head,  who  had  been  trying  all  the  morning  to  look  through  a 
telescope,  inside  the  glass  of  which  Mr.  Hardy  had  fixed  a 
large  black  wafer. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  a  Portuguese  tambourine  ?  "  inquired 
that  jocular  individual. 

"  Did^^^//  ever  hear  a  tom-tom,  sir  ?  "  sternly  inquired  the 
captain,  who  lost  no  opportunity  of  showing  off  his  travels, 
real  or  pretended. 

"  A  what  t  "  asked  Hardy,  rather  taken  aback. 

"  A  tom-tom.'* 

*  Never !  " 
Nor  a  gum-gum  ?  '* 

«  Never ! 

**  What  is  a  gum-gum  ?  eagerly  inquired  several  young 
ladies. 

*'When  I  was  in  the  East  Indies,"  replied  the  captain. 
(Here  was  a  discovery — he  had  been  in  the  East  Indies  !) — 
"  When  I  was  in  the  East  Indies,  I  was  once  stopping  a  few 
thousand  miles  up  the  country,  on  a  visit  at  the  house  of  a 
very  particular  friend  of  mine.  Ram  Chowdar  Doss  Azuph  Al 
Bowlar — a  devilish  pleasant  fellow.  As  we  were  enjoying  our 
hookahs,  one  evening,  in  the  cool  veranda  in  front  of  his 
villa,  we  were  rather  surprised  by  the  suddei.  appearance  of 
thirty-four  of  his  Kit-ma-gars  (for  he  had  rathei  a  large  estab- 


726 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


lishment  there),  accompanied  by  an  equal  number  of  Con-su- 
mars,  ajDproaching  the  house  with  a  threatening  aspect,  and 

beating  a  tom-tom.    The  Ram  started  up  " 

^'Who?"  inquired  the  bald  gentleman,  intensely  inter 
ested. 

The  Ram — Ram  Chowdar — " 
^'  Oh  ! "  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  I  beg  your  pardon 
pray  go  on/' 

" — Started  up  and  drew  a  pistol.  *  Helves,'  said  he,  '  my 
boy,' — he  always  called  me,  my  boy — *  Helves,^  said  he,  '  do 
you  hear  that  tom-tom  ? '  'I  do,'  said  I.  His  countenance, 
which  before  was  pale,  assumed  a  most  frightful  appearance  ; 
his  whole  visage  was  distorted,  and  his  frame  shaken  by  vio- 
lent emotions.  '  Do  you  see  that  gum-gum  ? '  said  he.  '  No,' 
said  I,  staring  about  me.  *  You  don't?'  said  he.  ^  No,  I'll 
be  damned  if  I  do,'  said  I  ;  'and  what's  more,  I  don't  know 
what  a  gum-gum  is,'  said  I.  I  really  thought  the  Ram  would 
have  dropped.  He  drew  me  aside,  and  with  an  expression  of 
agony  I  shall  never  forget,  said  in  a  low  whisper  " 

''  Dinner's  on  the  table,  ladies,"  interrupted  the  steward's 
wife. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  ?  "  said  the  captain,  immediately  suit- 
ing the  action  to  the  word,  and  escorting  Miss  Julia  Briggs  to 
the  cabin  with  as  much  ease  as  if  he  had  finished  the  story. 

''What  an  extraordinary  circumstance!"  ejaculated  the 
same  old  gentleman,  preserving  his  listening  attitude. 

"  What  a  traveller !  "  said  the  young  ladies. 

"What  a  singular  name!"  exclaimed  the  gentlemen, 
rather  confused  by  the  coolness  of  the  whole  affair. 

"  I  wish  he  had  finished  the  story,"  said  an  old  lady.  "  I 
wonder  what  a  gum-gum  really  is  ?  " 

"  By  Jove  !  "  exclaimed  Hardy,  who  until  now  had  been 
lost  in  utter  amazement,  "  I  don't  know  what  it  may  be  in 
India,  but  in  England  I  think  a  gum-gum  has  very  much  the 
same  meaning  as  a  hum-bug." 

"  How  illiberal !  how  envious  !  "  cried  everybody,  as  they 
made  for  the  cabin,  fully  impressed  with  a  belief  in  the  cap- 
tain's amazing  adventures.  Helves  was  the  sole  lion  for  the 
remainder  of  the  day — impudence  and  the  marvellous  are 
pretty  sure  passports  to  any  society. 

The  party  had  by  this  time  reached  their  destination,  and 
put  about  on  their  return  home.  The  wind,  which  had  been 
with  them  the  whole  day,  was  now  directly  in  their  teeth ; 


THE  STEAM  EXCURSION, 


727 


the  weather  had  become  gradually  more  and  more  overcast; 
and  the  sky,  water,  and  shore,  were  all  of  that  dull,  heavy, 
uniform  lead-color,  w^hich  house-painters  daub  in  the  first  in 
stance  over  a  street-door,  w^hich  is  gradually  approaching  a 
state  of  convalescence.  It  had  been  "  spitting  "  with  rain  for 
the  last  half-hour,  and  now  began  to  pour  in  good  earnesi. 
The  wind  was  freshening  very  fast,  and  the  waterman  at  the 
wheel  had  unequivocally  expressed  his  opinion  that  there 
would  shortly  be  a  squall.  A  slight  emotion  on  the  part  of 
the  vessel,  now  and  then,  seemed  to  suggest  the  possibility  of 
its  pitching  to  a  very  uncomfortable  extent  in  the  event  of  its 
blowing  harder ;  and  every  timber  began  to  creak,  as  if  the 
boat  w^ere  an  overladen  clothes-basket.  Sea-sickness,  how- 
ever, is  like  a  belief  in  ghosts — every  one  entertains  some  mis- 
givings on  the  subject,  but  few  wdll  acknowledge  any.  The 
majority  of  the  company,  therefore,  endeavored  to  look  pe- 
culiarly happy,  feeling  all  the  while  especially  miserable. 

Don't  it  rain  ?  "  inquired  the  old  gentleman  before  noticed, 
when,  by  dint  of  squeezing  and  jamming,  they  were  all  seated 
at  table. 

"  I  think  it  does — a  little,"  replied  Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  who 
could  hardly  hear  himself  speak,  in  consequence  of  the  patter- 
ing on  the  deck. 

"  Don't  it  blow  ?  "  inquired  some  one  else. 
No — I  don't  think  it  does,"  responded  Hardy,  sincerely 
wishing  that  he  could  persuade  himself  that  it  did  not ;  for  he 
sat  near  the  door,  and  was  almost  blown  off  his  seat. 

It'll  soon  clear  up,"  said  Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  in  a  cheer- 
ful tone. 

"  Oh,  certainly  !  "  ejaculated  the  committee  generally. 

"  No  doubt  of  it  1  "  said  the  remainder  of  the  company, 
whose  attention  was  now  pretty  well  engrossed  by  the  serious 
business  of  eating,  carving,  taking  wdne,  and  so  forth. 

The  throbbing  motion  of  the  engine  was  but  too  percep- 
tible. There  was  a  large,  substantial,  cold  boiled  leg  of  mut- 
ton, at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  shaking  like  blanc-mange  ;  a 
previously  hearty  sirloin  of  beef  looked  as  if  it  had  been  sud- 
denly seized  with  the  palsy  ;  and  some  tongues,  which  were 
placed  on  dishes  rather  too  large  for  them,  went  through  the 
most  surprising  evolutions  ;  darting  from  side  to  side,  and 
from  end  to  end,  like  a  fly  in  an  inverted  wine-glass.  Then, 
the  sweets  shook  and  trembled,  till  it  w^as  quite  impossible  t(? 
help  them,  and  people  gave  up  the  attempt  in  despair  ;  and 


728 


SKE TCHES  BY  BOZ. 


the  pigeon-pies  looked  as  if  the  birds,  whose  legs  were-  stuck 
outside,  was  trying  to  get  them  in.  The  table  vibrated  and 
started  like  a  feverish  pulse,  and  the  very  legs  were  convulsed 
— everything  was  shaking  and  jarring.  The  beams  in  the 
roof  or  the  cabin  seemed  as  if  they  were  put  there  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  giving  people  headaches,  and  several  elderly  gentle 
men  became  ill-tempered  in  consequence.  As  fast  as  the 
steward  put  the  fire-irons  up,  they  would  fall  down  again  ;  an-d 
the  more  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  tried  to  sit  comfortably  on 
their  seats,  the  more  the  seats  seemed  to  slide  away  from  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen.  Several  ominous  demands  were  made 
for  small  glasses  of  brandy  ;  the  countenances  of  the  company 
gradually  underwent  most  extraordinary  changes  ;  one  gentle- 
man was  observed  suddenly  to  rush  from  table  without  the 
slightest  ostensible  reason,  and  dart  up  the  steps  with  in- 
credible swiftness  :  thereby  greatly  damaging  both  himself 
and  the  steward,  who  happened  to  be  coming  down  at  the 
same  moment. 

The  cloth  was  removed  ;  the  dessert  was  laid  on  the  table  ; 
and  the  glasses  were  filled.  The  motion  of  the  boat  increased  ; 
several  members  of  the  party  began  to  feel  rather  vague  and 
misty,  and  looked  as  if  they  had  only  just  got  up.  The  young 
gentleman  with  the  spectacles,  who  had  been  in  a  fluctuating 
state  for  some  time — at  one  moment  bright,  and  at  another 
dismal,  like  a  revolving  light  on  the  sea-coast — rashly  an- 
nounced his  wish  to  propose  a  toast.  After  several  ineffectual 
attempts  to  preserve  his  perpendicular,  the  young  gentleman, 
having  managed  to  hook  himself  to  the  centre  leg  of  the  table 
with  his  left  hand,  proceeded  as  follows  : 

Ladies  and  gentlemen.  A  gentleman  is  among  us — I 
may  say  a  stranger — (here  some  painful  thought  seemed  to 
strike  the  orator ;  he  paused,  and  looked  extremely  odd) — 
whose  talents,  whose  travels,  whose  cheerfulness — " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Edkins,''  hastily  interrupted  Mn 
Percy  Noakes, — Hardy,  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

Nothing,"  replied  the  "  funny  gentleman,"  who  had  just 
life  enough  left  to  utter  two  consecutive  syllables. 

"  Will  you  have  some  brandy }  " 
No  !  "  replied  Hardy,  in  a  tone  of  great  indignation,  and 
looking  as  comfortable  as  Temple-bar  in  a  Scotch  mist ; 
what  should  I  want  brandy  for  1 " 

"  Will  you  go  on  deck  ?  " 

**No,  I  will  noty    This  was  said  with  a  most  determined 


"THEREBY  BOTH  GREATLY  DAMAGING  HIMSELF  AND  THE  STEWARD, 
T.T.C.  P^S'  728. 


OF  THE 


THE  STEAM  EXCURSIOiV. 


air,  and  in  a  voice  which  might  have  been  taken  for  an  imita- 
tion of  anything  ;  it  was  quite  as  much  hke  a  guinea-pig  as  a 
bassoon. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Edkins/'  said  the  courteous  Percys 
*'  I  thought  our  friend  was  ill.    Pray  go  on.^' 

A  pause. 

"  Pray  go  on." 
Mr.  Eldkins  is  gone,"  cried  somebody. 
I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  steward,  running  up  to 
Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  the  gentle- 
man has  just  went  on  deck — him  with  the  green  spectacles — ■ 
is  uncommon  bad,  to  be  sure :  and  the  young  man  as  played 
the  wiolin  says,  that  unless  he  has  some  brandy  he  can't 
answer  for  the  consequences.  He  says  he  has  a  wife  and  two 
children,  whose  werry  subsistence  depends  on  his  breaking  a 
wessel,  and  he  expects  to  do  so  every  moment.  The  flageolet's 
been  wery  ill,  but  he's  better,  only  he's  in  a  dreadful  prus- 
peration." 

All  disguise  was  now  useless  ;  the  company  staggered 
on  deck  ;  the  gentlemen  tried  to  see  nothing  but  the  clouds  ; 
and  the  ladies,  muffled  up  in  such  shawls  and  cloaks  as  they 
had  brought  with  them,  lay  about  on  the  seats,  and  under  the 
seats,  in  the  most  wretched  condition.  Never  was  such  a 
blowing,  and  raining,  and  pitching,  and  tossing,  endured  by 
any  pleasure  party  before.  Several  remonstrances  were  sent 
down  below,  on  the  subject  of  Master  Fleetwood,  but  they 
were  totally  unheeded  in  consequence  of  the  indisposition  of 
his  natural  protectors.  That  interesting  child  screamed  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  until  he  had  no  voice  left  to  scream  with  ; 
and  then.  Miss  Wakefield  began,  and  screamed  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  passage. 

Mr.  Hardy  was  observed,  some  hours  afterwards,  in  an 
attitude  which  induced  his  friends  to  suppose  that  he  was 
busily  engaged  in  contemplating  the  beauties  of  the  deep  ; 
they  only  regretted  that  his  taste  for  the  picturesque  should 
lead  him  to  remain  so  long  in  a  position,  very  injurious  at  all 
times,  but  especially  so,  to  an  individual  laboring  under  a 
tendency  of  blood  to  the  head. 

The  party  arrived  off  the  Custom  house  at  about  two 
o'clock  on  the  Thursday  morning  dispirited  and  worn  out. 
The  Tauntons  were  too  ill  to  quarrel  with  the  Briggses,  and 
the  Briggses  were  too  wretched  to  annoy  the  Tauntons.  One 
of  the  guitar-cases  was  lost  on  its  passage  to  a  hackney-coach. 


730 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


and  Mrs.  Briggs  has  not  scrupled  to  state  that  the  Tauntons 
bribed  a  porter  to  throw  it  down  an  area.  Mr.  Alexander 
Briggs  opposes  vote  by  ballot — he  says  from  personal  ex- 
perience of  its  inefficacy  ;  and  Mr.  Samuel  Briggs,  whenever 
he  is  asked  to  express  his  sentiments  on  the  point,  says  he  has 
no  opinion  on  that  or  any  other  subject. 

Mr.  Edkins — the  young  gentleman  in  the  green  spectacles 
— makes  a  speech  on  every  occasion  on  which  a  speech  can 
possibly  be  made  :  the  eloquence  of  which  can  only  be  equalled 
by  its  length.  In  the  event  of  his  not  being  previously  ap- 
pointed to  a  judgeship,  it  is  probable  that  he  will  practise  as 
a  barrister  in  the  New  Central  Criminal  Court. 

Captain  Helves  continued  his  attention  to  Miss  Julia 
Briggs,  whom  he  might  possibly  have  espoused,  if  it  had  not 
unfortunately  happened  that  Mr.  Samuel  arrested  him,  in  the 
way  of  business,  pursuant  to  instructions  received  from  Messrs. 
Scroggins  and  Payne,  whose  town-debts  the  gallant  captain 
had  condescended  to  collect,  but  whose  accounts,  with  the  in- 
discretion sometimes  peculiar  to  military  minds,  he  had 
omitted  to  keep  with  that  dull  accuracy  which  custom  has  ren- 
dered necessary.  3irs.  Taunton  complains  that  she  has  been 
much  deceived  in  him.  He  introduced  himself  to  the  family 
on  board  a  Gravesend  steam-packet,  and  certainly,  therefore, 
ought  to  have  proved  respectable. 

Mr.  Percy  Noakes  is  as  light-hearted  and  careless  as  ever. 


CHAPTER  VHI, 

THE  GREAT  WINGLEBURY  DUEL. 

The  little  town  of  Great  Winglebury  is  exactly  forty-two 
miles  and  three-quarters  from  Hyde  Park  corner.  It  has  a 
long,  straggling,  quiet  High-street,  with  a  great  black  and 
white  clock  at  a  small  red  Town-hall,  half  way  up — a  market- 
place— a  cage — an  assembly-room — a  church — a  bridge — a 
chapel — a  theatre — a  library — an  inn — a  pump — and  a  Post- 
office.  Tradition  tells  of  a  ^'  Little  Winglebury,'^  down  some 
cross-road  about  two  miles  off ;  and,  as  a  square  mass  of  dirty 
paper,  supposed  to  have  been  originally  intended  for  a  letter, 
with  certain  tremulous  characters  inscribed  thereon,  in  which 


THE  GREAT  WINGLEBURY  DUEL, 


73^ 


a  lively  imagination  might  trace  a  remote  resemblance  to  the 
word  Little,"  was  once  stuck  up  to  be  owned  in  the  sunny 
window  of  the  Great  Winglebury  Post-office,  from  which  it 
only  disappeared  when  it  fell  to  pieces  with  dust  and  extreme 
old  age,  there  would  appear  to  be  some  foundation  for  the 
legend.  Common  belief  is  inclined  to  bestow  the  name  upon 
a  little  hole  at  the  end  of  a  muddy  lane  about  a  couple  of 
miles  long,  colonized  by  one  wheelwright,  four  paupers,  and  a 
beer-shop  ;  but,  even  this  authority,  slight  as  it  is,  must  be  re- 
garded with  extreme  suspicion,  inasmuch  as  the  inhabitants 
of  the  hole  aforesaid,  concur  in  opining  that  it  never  had  any 
name  at  all,  from  the  earliest  ages  down  to  the  present  day. 

The  Winglebury  Arms,  in  the  centre  of  the  High-street, 
opposite  the  small  building  with  the  big  clock,  is  the  principal 
inn  of  Great  Winglebury — the  commercial-inn,  posting-house, 
and  excise-office  ;  the  Blue  "  house  at  every  election,  and 
the  Judges'  house  at  every  assizes.  It  is  the  head-quarters  of 
the  Gentlemen's  Whist  Club  of  Winglebury  Blues  (so  called 
in  opposition  to  the  Gentlemen's  Whist  Club  of  Winglebury 
Buffs,  held  at  the  other  house,  a  little  further  down)  :  and 
whenever  a  juggler,  or  wax-work  man,  or  concert-giver,  takes 
Great  Winglebury  in  his  circuit,  it  is  immediately  placarded 
all  over  the  town  that  Mr.  So-and-so,  "  trusting  to  that  liberal 
support  which  the  inhabitants  of  Great  Winglebury  have  long 
been  so  liberal  in  bestowing,  has  at  a  great  expense  engaged 
the  elegant  and  commodious  assembly-rooms,  attached  to  the 
Winglebury  Arms."  The  house  is  a  large  one,  with  a  red 
brick  and  stone  front ;  a  pretty  spacious  hall,  ornamented 
with  evergreen  plants,  terminates  in  a  perspective  view  of  the 
bar,  and  a  glass  case,  in  which  are  displayed  a  choice  variety 
of  delicacies  ready  for  dressing,  to  catch  the  eye  of  a  new- 
comer the  moment  he  enters,  and  excite  his  appetite  to  the 
highest  possible  pitch.  Opposite  doors  lead  to  the  coffee" 
and  "commercial  "  rooms;  and  a  great  wide,  rambling  stair- 
case,— three  stairs  and  a  landing — four  stairs  and  another 
landing — one  step  and  another  landing — half-a-dozen  stairs 
and  another  landing — and  so  on — conducts  to  galleries  of 
bedrooms,  and  labyrinths  of  sitting-rooms,  denominated  pri- 
vate," where  you  may  enjoy  yourself,  as  privately  as  you  can 
in  any  place  where  some  bewildered  being  walks  into  your 
room  every  five  minutes,  by  mistake,  and  then  walks  out  again, 
to  open  all  the  doors  along  the  gallery  until  he  finds  his  own. 

Such  is  the  Winglebury  Arms,  at  this  day,  and  such  was 


732 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


the  Winglebury  Arms  some  time  since — no  matter  when — > 
two  or  three  minutes  before  the  arrival  of  the  London  stage. 
Four  horses  with  cloths  on — change  for  a  coach — were  stand- 
ing quietly  at  the  corner  of  the  yard  surrounded  by  a  listless 
group  of  post-boys  in  shiny  hats  and  smock-frocks,  engaged 
in  discussing  the  merits  of  the  cattle  ;  half  a  dozen  ragged 
boys  were  standing  a  little  apart,  listening  with  evident  in- 
terest to  the  conversation  of  these  worthies  ;  and  a  few 
loungers  were  collected  round  the  horse-trough,  awaiting  the 
arrival  of  the  coach. 

The  day  was  hot  and  sunny,  the  town  in  the  zenith  of  its 
dullness,  and  with  the  exception  of  these  few  idlers,  not  a  liv- 
ing creature  was  to  be  seen.  Suddenly,  the  loud  notes  of  a 
key-bugle  broke  the  monotonous  stillness  of  the  street ;  in 
came  the  coach,  rattling  over  the  uneven  paving  with  a  noise 
startling  enough  to  stop  even  the  large-faced  clock  itself. 
Down  got  the  outsides,  up  went  the  windows  in  all  directions, 
out  came  the  waiters,  up  started  the  ostlers,  and  the  loungers, 
and  the  post-boys,  and  the  ragged  boys,  as  if  they  were  elec- 
trified^— unstrapping,  and  unchaining,  and  unbuckling,  and 
dragging  willing  horses  out,  and  forcing  reluctant  horses  in, 
and  making  a  most  exhilarating  bustle.  Lady  inside,  here  ! 
said  the  guard.  "  Please  to  alight,  ma'am,"  said  the  waiter. 
"  Private  sitting-room  ?  "  interrogated  the  lady.  "  Certainly, 
Ina'am,"  responded  the  chambermaid.  "  Nothing  but  these 
'ere  trunks,  ma'am  ?  "  inquired  the  guard.  "  Nothing  more,'* 
replied  the  lady.  Up  got  the  outsides  again,  and  the  guard, 
and  the  coachman ;  oif  came  the  cloths,  with  a  jerk  ;  "  All 
right,"  was  the  cry  ;  and  away  they  went.  The  loungers  lin- 
gered a  minute  or  two  in  the  road,  watching  the  coach  until  it 
turned  the  corner,  and  then  loitered  away  one  by  one.  The 
street  was  clear  again,  and  the  town,  by  contrast,  quieter  than 
ever. 

"  Ladv  in  number  twenty-five,"  screamed  the  landlady. — - 
"  Thomas  !  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

Letter  just  been  left  for  the  gentleman  in  number  nine- 
teen.   Boots  at  the  Lion  left  it.    No  answer." 

Letter  for  you,  sir,"  said  Thomas,  depositing  the  letter 
on  number  nineteen's  table. 

For  me  ?  "  said  number  nineteen,  turning  from  the  win- 
dow, out  of  which  he  had  been  surveying  the  scene  just  de 
scribed. 


THE  GREAT  WINGLEBURY  DUEL. 


733 


Yes,  sir," — (waiters  always  speak  in  hints,  and  never 
utter  complete  sentences,)^ — yes,  sir, — Boots  at  the  Lion,  sir, 
— Bar,  sir, — Missis  said  number  nineteen,  sir — Alexander 
Trott,  Esq.,  sir  ? — Your  card  at  the  bar,  sir,  I  think,  sir  ? " 

"  My  name  is  Trott,"  replied  number  nineteen,  breaking 
the  seal.  "  You  may  go,  waiter."  The  waiter  pulled  down 
the  window-blind,  and  then  pulled  it  up  again — for  a  regular 
waiter  must  do  something  before  he  leaves  the  room — adjusted 
the  glasses  on  the  sideboard,  brushed  a  place  that  was  not 
dusty,  rubbed  his  hands  very  hard,  walked  stealthily  to  the 
door,  and  evaporated. 

There  was,  evidently,  something  in  the  contents  of  the 
letter,  of  a  nature,  if  not  wholly  unexpected,  certainly  extremely 
disagreeable.  Mr.  Alexander  Trott  laid  it  down,  and  took  it 
up  again,  and  walked  about  the  room  on  particular  squares 
of  the  carpet,  and  even  attempted,  though  unsuccessfully,  to 
whistle  an  air.  Tt  wouldn't  do.  He  threw  himself  into  a  chair, 
and  read  the  following  epistle  aloud : 

*'  Blue  Lion  and  Stomach-warmer, 
Great  Winglebury. 

Wednesday  Morni?tg. 

"  Sir.  Immediately  on  discovering  your  intentions,  I 
left  our  counting  house,  and  followed  you.  I  know  the  pur- 
port of  your  journey  ; — that  journey  shall  never  be  com- 
pleted. 

"  I  have  no  friend  here,  just  now,  on  whose  secresy  I  can 
rely.  This  shall  be  no  obstacle  to  my  revenge.  Neither  shall 
Emily  Brown  be  exposed  to  the  mercenary  solicitations  of  a 
scoundrel,  odious  in  her  eyes,  aj^id  contemptible  in  everybody 
else's  ;  nor  will  I  tamely  submit  to  the  clandestine  attacks  of 
a  base  umbrella-maker. 

"  Sir.  From  Great  Winglebury  church,  a  footpath  leads 
through  four  meadows  to  a  retired  spot  known  to  the  townspeo- 
ple as  Stiffun's  Acre."  [Mr.  Trott  shuddered.]  "  I  shall  be 
waiting  there  alone,  at  twenty  minutes  before  six  o'clock  to-* 
morrow  morning.  Should  I  be  disappointed  in  seeing  you 
there,  I  will  do  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling  with  a  horsewhip. 

Horace  Hunter. 

"  PS.    There  is  a  gunsmith's  in  the  High-street ;  and 
they  won't  sell  gunpowder  after  dark — you  understand  me. 
"  PPS.    You  had  better  not  order  your  breakfast  in  the 


734 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


morning  until  you  have  met  me.  It  may  be  an  unnecessary 
exiDense." 

Desperate-minded  villain  !  I  knew  how  it  would  be  !  " 
ejaculated  the  terrified  Trott.  "  I  always  told  father,  that 
once  start  me  on  this  expedition,  and  Hunter  would  pursue 
me  like  the  Wandering  Jew.  It'sbad  enough  as  it  is,  to  marry 
with  the  old  people's  commands,  and  without  the  girl's  con- 
sent ;  but  what  will  Emily  think  of  me,  if  I  go  down  there 
breathless  with  running  away  from  this  infernal  salamander? 
What  shall  I  do  ?  What  ca7i  I  do  ?  If  I  go  back  to  the  city, 
I'm  disgraced  for  ever — lose  the  girl — and,  what's  more,  lose 
the  money  too.  Even  if  I  did  go  on  to  the  Browns'  by  the 
coach.  Hunter  would  be  after  me  in  a  post-chaise  ;  and  if  I  go  to 
this  place,  this  Stiff un's  Acre  (another  shudder),  I'm  as  good 
as  dead.  I've  seen  him  hit  the  man  at  the  Pall-mall  shooting- 
gallery,  in  the  second  button-hole  of  the  waistcoat,  five  times 
out  of  every  six,  and  when  he  didn't  hit  there,  he  hit  him  in 
the  head."  With  this  consolatory  reminiscence  Mr.  Alexander 
Trott  again  ejaculated,  "  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

Long  and  weary  were  his  reflections,  as,  burying  his  face 
in  his  hand,  he  sat,  ruminating  on  the  best  course  to  be  pur- 
^  sued.  His  mental  direction-post  pointed  to  London.  He 
thought  of  the  "governor's  "  anger,  and  the  loss  of  the  for- 
tune which  the  paternal  Brown  had  promised  the  paternal 
Trott  his  daughter  should  contribute  to  the  coffers  of  his  son. 
Then  the  words  "  To  Brown's  "  were  legibly  inscribed  on  the 
said  direction-post,  but  Horace  Hunter's  denunciation  rung  in 
his  ears  ; — last  of  all  it  bore^  in  red  letters,  the  words,  "  To 
Stiffun's  Acre  ;  "  and  then  Mr.  Alexander  Trott  decided  on 
adopting  a  plan  which  he  presently  matured. 

First  and  foremost,  he  despatched  the  under-boots  to  the 
Blue  Lion  and  Stomach-warmer,  with  a  gentlemanly  note  to 
Mr.  Horace  Hunter,  intimating  that  he  thirsted  for  his  de- 
struction and  would  do  himself  the  pleasure  of  slaughtering 
him  next  morning,  without  fail.  He  then  wrote  another 
letter,  and  requested  the  attendance  of  the  other  boots — for 
they  kept  a  pair.  A  modest  knock  at  the  room  door  was 
heard.  "  Come  in,"  said  Mr.  Trott.  A  man  thrust  in  a  red 
head  with  one  eye  in  it,  and  being  again  desired  to  "  come  in," 
brought  in  the  body  and  the  legs  to  which  the  head  belonged, 
and  a  fur  cap  which  belonged  to  the  head. 

You  are  the  upper-boots,  I  think  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Trott 


THE  GREAT  WINGLEBURY  DUEL, 


73S 


"  Yes,  I  am  the  upper-boots,"  replied  a  voice  from  inside 
a  velveteen  case,  with  mother-of-pearl  buttons — that  is,  Tm 
the  boots  as  b'longs  to  the  house  ;  the  other  man's  my  man, 
as  goes  errands  and  does  odd  jobs.  Top-boots  and  half-boots 
I  calls  us." 

You're  from  London  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Trott. 

*^Driv  a  cab  once,"  was  the  laconic  reply. 
Why  don't  you  drive  it  now  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Trott. 

"Over-driv  the  cab,  and  driv  over  a  'ooman,"  replied  the 
top-boots,  with  brevity. 

"  Do  you  know  the  mayor's  house  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Trott. 

"  Rather,"  replied  the  boots,  significantly,  as  if  he  had 
some  good  reason  to  remember  it. 

Do  you  think  you  could  manage  to  leave  a  letter  there  ?  " 
interrogated  Trott. 

"  Shouldn't  wonder,"  responded  boots. 

"But  this  letter,"  said  Trott,  holding  a  deformed  note 
with  a  paralytic  direction  in  one  hand,  and  five  shillings  in 
the  other — "this  letter  is  anonymous." 

"  A — what  ?  "  interrupted  the  boots. 
Anonymous — he's  not  to  know  who  it  comes  from." 

"  Oh  1  I  see./'  responded  the  reg'lar,  with  a  knowing  wink, 
but  without  evincing  the  slightest  disinclination  to  undertake 
the  charge — "  I  see — bit  o'  Sving,  eh  ^ "  and  his  one  eye 
wandered  round  the  room,  as  if  in  quest  of  a  dark  lantern 
and  phosphorus-box.  "  But,  I  say  !  "  he  continued,  recalling 
the  eye  from  its  search,  and  bringing  it  to  bear  on  Mr.  Trott. 
"  I  say,  he's  a  lawyer,  our  mayor,  and  insured  in  the  County, 
If  you've  a  spite  agen  him,  you'd  better  not  burn  his  house 
down — blessed  if  I  don't  think  it  would  be  the  greatest  favor 
you  could  do  him."    And  he  chuckled  inwardly. 

If  Mr,  Alexander  Trott  had  been  in  any  other  situation, 
his  first  act  would  have  been  to  kick  the  man  down  stairs  by 
deputy ;  or,  in  other  words,  to  ring  the  bell,  and  desire  the 
landlord  to  take  his  boots  off.  He  contented  himself,  however, 
with  doubling  the  fee  and  explaining  that  the  letter  merely  re 
lated  to  a  breach  of  ti^e  peace.  The  top-boots  retired,  solemnly 
pledged  to  secresy ;  and  Mr.  Alexander  Trott  sat  down  to  a 
fried  sole,  maintenon  cutlet,  Madeira,  and  sundries,  with 
greater  composure  than  he  had  experienced  since  the  receipt 
of  Horace  Hunter's  letter  of  defiance. 

The  lady  who  alighted  from  the  London  coach  had  no 
sooner  been  installed  in  number  twenty-five,  and  made  som« 


736 


SKETCHES  B  V  BOZ. 


alteration  in  her  travelling-dress,  than  she  indited  a  note  to 
Joseph  Overton,  esquire,  solicitor,  and  mayor  of  Great  VVingle- 
bury,  requesting  his  immediate  attendance  on  private  business 
of  paramount  importance — a  summons  which  that  worthy  func- 
tionary lost  no  time  in  obeying;  for  after  sundry  openings  of 
his  eyes,  divers  ejaculations  of  "  Bless  me  !  ^'  and  other  mani- 
festations of  surprise,  he  took  his  broad-brimmed  hat  from 
its  accustomed  peg  in  his  little  front  office,  and  walked  briskly 
down  the  High-street  to  the  Winglebury  Arms ;  through  the 
hall  and  up  the  staircase  of  which  establishment  he  was  ushered 
by  the  landlady,  and  a  crowd  of  officious  waiters,  to  the  door 
of  number  twenty-five. 

"  Show  the  gentleman  in,"  said  the  stranger  lady,  in  reply 
to  the  foremost  waiter's  announcement.  The  gentleman  v/as 
shown  in  accordingly. 

The  lady  rose  from  the  sofa  ;  the  mayor  advanced  a  step 
from  the  door;  and  there  they  both  paused,  for  a  minute  or 
two,  looking  at  one  another  as  if  by  mutual  consent.  The 
mayor  saw  before  him  a  buxom  richly-dressed  female  of  about 
forty  ;  the  lady  looked  upon  a  sleek  man,  about  ten  years  older, 
in  drab  shorts  and  continuations,  black  coat,  neckcloth,  and 
gloves. 

Miss  Julia  Manners  !  "  exclaimed  the  mayor  at  length, 
"  you  astonish  me." 

"  That's  very  unfair  of  you,  Overton,"  replied  Miss  Julia, 
"  for  I  have  known  you,  long  enough,  not  to  be  surprised  at 
anything  you  do,  and  you  might  extend  equal  courtesy  tome." 

"  But  to  run  away  —  actually  run  away  —  wdth  a  young 
man  !  "  remonstrated  the  mayor. 

"  You  wouldn't  have  me  actually  run  away  with  an  old  one, 
I  presume   "  was  the  cool  rejoinder. 

"  And  then  to  ask  me — me — of  all  people  in  the  world — a 
man  of  my  age  and  appearance — mayor  of  the  town — to  pro- 
mote such  a  scheme  !  "  pettishly  ejaculated  Joseph  Overton ; 
throwing  himself  into  an  arm-chair,  and  producing  Miss 
Julia's  letter  from  his  pocket,  as  if  to  corroborate  the  asser- 
tion that  he  had  been  asked. 

Now,  Overton,"  replied  the  lady,  "  I  want  your  assist 
ance  in  this  matter,  and  I  must  have  it.  In  the  lifetime  of 
that  poor  old  dear,  Mr.  Cornberry,  who — who — " 

"  Who  was  to  have  married  you,  and  didn't,  because  he 
died  first ;  and  who  left  you  his  property  unencumbered  with 
the  addition  of  himself,"  suggested  the  mayor. 


THE  ORE  AT  WINGLEBURY  DUEL, 


737 


"Well,"  replied  Miss  Julia,  reddening  slightly,  "in  the 
lifetime  of  the  poor  old  dear,  the  property  had  the  incum- 
brance of  your  management ;  and  all  I  will  say  of  that,  is, 
that  I  only  wonder  it  didn't  die  of  consumption  instead  of  its 
master.    You  helped  yourself  then  : — help  me  now." 

Mr.  Joseph  Overton  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  an  at- 
torney ;  and  as  certain  indistinct  recollections  of  an  odd 
thousand  pounds  or  two,  appropriated  by  mistake,  passed 
across  his  mind,  he  hemmed  deprecatingly,  smiled  blandly, 
remained  silent  for  a  few  seconds;  and  finally  inquired, 
"  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  replied  Miss  Julia — "  I'll  tell  you  in  three 
words.    Dear  Lord  Peter — " 

"  That's  the  young  man,  I  suppose  —  "  interrupted  the 
mayor. 

"  That's  the  young  Nobleman,"  replied  the  lady,  with  a 
great  stress  on  the  last  word.  Dear  Lord  Peter  is  consid- 
erably afraid  of  the  resentment  of  his  family ;  and  we  liave 
therefore  thought  it  better  to  make  the  match  a  stolen  one 
He  left  town,  to  avoid  suspicion,  on  a  visit  to  his  friend,  the 
Honorable  Augustus  Flair,  whose  seat,  as  you  know,  is  about 
thirty  miles  from  this,  accompanied  only  by  his  favorite  tiger. 
We  arranged  that  I  should  come  here  alone  in  the  London 
coach ;  and  that  he,  leaving  his  tiger  and  cab  behind  him, 
should  come  on,  and  arrive  here  as  soon  as  possible  this 
afternoon." 

"  Very  well,"  observed  Joseph  Overton,  "  and  then  he  can 
order  the  chaise,  and  you  can  go  on  to  Gretna  Green  together, 
without  requiring  the  presence  of  interference  of  a  third 
party,  can't  you  1 " 

"No,"  replied  Miss  Julia.  "We  have  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve— dear  Lord  Peter  not  being  considered  very  prudent  or 
sagacious  by  his  friends,  and  they  having  discovered  his  at- 
tachment to  me — that,  immediately  on  his  absence  being 
observed,  pursuit  will  be  made  in  this  direction  : — to  elude 
which,  and  to  prevent  our  being  traced,  I  wish  it  to  be  under- 
stood in  this  house,  that  dear  Lord  Peter  is  slightly  deranged, 
though  perfectly  harmless  ;  and  that  I  am,  unknown  to  him, 
awaiting  his  arrival  to  convey  him  in  a  post-chaise  to  a  pri- 
vate asylum — at  Berwick,  say.  If  I  don't  show  myself  much, 
I  dare  say  I  can  manage  to  pass  for  his  mother." 

The  thought  occurred  to  the  mayor's  mind  that  the  lady 
might  show  herself  a  good  deal  without  fear  of  detection ; 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


seeing  that  she  was  about  double  the  a^e  of  hei  intended 
husband.    He  said  nothing,  liowever,  and  the  lady  proceeded. 

"  With  the  whole  of  this  arrangement  dear  Lord  Peter  is 
acquainted  ;  and  all  I  want  you  to  do,  is,  to  make  the  delu- 
sion more  complete  by  giving  it  the  sanction  of  your  influence 
in  this  place,  and  assigning  this  as  a  reason  to  the  people  of 
the  house  for  my  taking  the  young  gentleman  away.  As  it 
would  not  be  consistent  with  the  story  that  I  should  see  him 
until  after  he  has  entered  the  chaise,  I  also  wish  you  to  com 
municate  with  him,  and  inform  him  that  it  is  all  going  on 
well.'^ 

Has  he  arrived  } inquired  Overton. 
"I  don't  know,"  replied  the  lady. 

"Then  how  am  I  to  know!"  inquired  the  mayor.  '•Of 
course  he  will  not  give  his  own  name  at  the  bar." 

"I  begged  him,  immediately  on  his  arrival,  to  Vvrite  you  a 
note,"  replied  Miss  Manners  ;  "  and  to  prevent  the  possibil- 
ity of  our  project  being  discovered  through  its  means,  I 
desired  him  to  write  anonymously,  and  in  mysterious  terms, 
to  acquaint  you  with  the  number  of  his  room." 

"  Bless  me  !  '*  exclaimed  the  mayor,  rising  from  his  seat, 
and  searching  his  pockets — "  most  extraordinary  circumstance 
— he  /las  arrived — mysterious  note  left  at  my  house  in  a  most 
mysterious  manner,  just  before  yours — didn't  know  what  to 
make  of  it  before,  and  certainly  shouldn't  have  attended  to  it. 
— Oh !  here  it  is."  And  Joseph  Overton  pulled  out  of  an 
inner  coat-pocket  the  identical  letter  penned  by  Alexander 
Trott.    "Is  this  his  lordship's  hand  ?  " 

*'  Oh  yes,"  replied  Julia  ;  "  good,  punctual  creature  !  I 
have  not  seen  it  more  than  once  or  twice,  but  I  know  he 
writes  very  badly  and  very  large.  These  dear,  wild  young 
noblemen,  you  know,  Overton — " 

"  Ay,  ay,  I  see,"  replied  the  mayor — "  Horses  and  dogs, 
play  and  wine — ^grooms,  actresses,  and  cigars — the  stable,  the 
green-room,  the  saloon,  and  the  tavern  ;  and  the  legislative 
assembly  at  last.*' 

"  Here's  what  he  says,"  pursued  the  mayor ;  "  '  Sir, — A 
young  gentleman  in  number  nineteen  at  the  Winglebury 
Arms,  is  bent  on  committing  a  rash  act  to-morrow^  morning  at 
an  early  hour.'  (That's  good — he  means  marrying.)  *  If  you 
have  any  regard  for  the  peace  of  this  town,  or  the  preservation 
of  one — it  may  be  two — human  lives ' — What  the  deuce  does 
he  mean  by  that  ? 


THE  GREAT  WINGLEBURY  DUEL. 


739 


"That  he's  so  anxious  for  the  ceremony,  he  will  expire  if 
it's  put  off,  and  that  I  may  possibly  do  the  same,"  replied  the 
lady  with  great  complacency. 

*'Oh  !  I  see — not  much  fear  of  that ; — well — 'two  human 
lives,  you  will  cause  him  to  be  removed  to-night.'  (He  wants 
to  start  at  once.)  *  Fear  not  to  do  this  on  your  responsibil- 
ity :  for  to-morrow  the  absolute  necessity  of  the  proceeding 
will  be  but  too  apparent.  Remember  :  number  nineteen.  The 
name  is  Trott.  No  delay  ;  for  life  and  death  depend  upon 
your  promptitude.'  Passionate  language,  certainly.  Shall  I 
see  him  1 " 

"Do,"  replied  Miss  Julia;  "and  entreat  him  to  act  his 
part  well.    I  am  half  afraid  of  him.   Tell  him  to  be  cautious." 
"  I  will,"  said  the  mayor. 
"  Settle  all  the  arrangements." 
"  I  will,"  said  the  mayor  again. 

"  And  say  I  think  the  chaise  had  better  be  ordered  for  one 
o'clock." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  mayor  once  more  ;  and,  ruminating 
on  the  absurdity  of  the  situation  in  which  fate  and  old  ac- 
quaintance had  placed  him,  he  desired  a  waiter  to  herald  his 
approach  to  the  temporary  representative  of  number  nineteen. 

The  announcement,  "  Gentleman  to  speak  with  you,  sir," 
induced  Mr.  Trott  to  pause  half-way  in  the  glass  of  port,  the 
contents  of  which  he  was  in  the  act  of  imbibing  at  the  mo- 
ment ;  to  rise  from  his  chair ;  and  retreat  a  few  paces  towards 
the  window,  as  if  to  secure  a  retreat,  in  the  event  of  the  visitor 
assuming  the  form  and  appearance  of  Horace  Hunter.  One 
glance  at  Joseph  Overton,  however,  quieted  his  apprehensions. 
He  courteously  motioned  the  stranger  to  a  seat.  The  waiter, 
after  a  little  jingling  with  the  decanter  and  glasses,  consented 
to  leave  the  room ;  and  Joseph  Overton,  placing  the  broad- 
brimmed  hat  on  the  chair  next  him,  and  bending  his  body 
gently  forward,  opened  the  business  by  saying  in  a  very  low 
and  cautious  tone, 

"  My  lord—" 

"  Eh  "  said  Mr.  Alexander  Trott,  in  a  loud  key,  with  the 
vacant  and  mystified  stare  of  a  chilly  somnambulist. 

"  Hush — hush  !  "  said  the  cautious  attorney  :  "  to  be  sure 
—quite  right — no  titles  here — my  name  is  Overton,  sir." 

"  Overton  > " 

"  Yes  :  the  mayor  of  this  place — you  sent  me  a  letter  with 
anonymous  information,  this  afternoon." 


740 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


"  I,  sir  ?  exclaimed  Trott  with  ill-dissembled  surprise  , 
for,  coward  as  he  was,  he  would  willingly  have  repudiated  the 
authorship  of  the  letter  in  question.       I,  sir  ? " 

"  Yes,  you,  sir ;  did  you  not  ?  '  responded  Overton,  an- 
noyed with  what  he  supposed  to  be  an  extreme  degree  of  un 
necessary  suspicion.  Either  this  letter  is  yours,  or  it  is  not 
If  it  be,  we  can  converse  securely  upon  the  subject  at  once 
If  it  be  not,  of  course  1  have  no  more  to  say/' 

"  Stay,  stay,"  said  Trott,  "  it  is  mine  ;  I  did  write  it.  What 
could  I  do,  sir  ?    I  had  no  friend  here.'' 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  mayor,  encouragingly, 
"  you  could  not  have  managed  it  better.  Well,  sir  ;  it  will  be 
necessary  for  you  to  leave  here  to-night  in  a  post-chaise  and 
four.  And  the  harder  the  boys  drive,  the  better.  You  are 
not  safe  from  pursuit." 

"  Bless  me  !  "  exclaimed  Trott,  in  an  agony  of  apprehen- 
sion, "  can  such  things  happen  in  a  country  like  this  t  Such 
unrelenting  and  cold-blooded  hostility  !  "  He  wiped  off  the 
concentrated  essence  of  cowardice  that  was  oozing  fast  down 
his  forehead,  and  looked  aghast  at  Joseph  Overton. 

"  It  certainly  is  a  very  hard  case,"  replied  the  mayor  with 
a  smile,  "  that,  in  a  free  country,  people  can't  marry  whom 
they  like,  without  being  hunted  down  as  if  they  were  criminals. 
However,  in  the  present  instance  the  lady  is  willing,  you  know, 
and  that's  the  main  point,  after  all." 

"Lady  willing,"  repeated  Trott,  mechanically.  How  do 
you  know  the  lady's  willing  ?  " 

Come,  that's  a  good  one,"  said  the  mayor,  benevolently 
tapping  Mr.  Trott  on  the  arm  with  his  broad-brimmed  hat ;  "  I 
have  known  her,  well,  for  a  long  time  ;  and  if  anybody  could 
entertain  the  remotest  doubt  on  the  subject,  I  assure  you  I 
have  none,  nor  need  you  have." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  Mr.  Trott,  ruminating.  This  is  very 
extraordinary  !  " 

"  Well,  Lord  Peter,"  said  the  mayor,  rising. 

"  Lord  Peter  ?  "  repeated  Mr.  Trott. 

"  Oh — ah,  I  forgot.  Mr.  Trott,  then — Trott — very  good, 
ha !  l!a  ! — Well,  sir,  the  chaise  shall  be  ready  at  half-past 
twelve." 

And  what  is  to  become  of  me  until  then  ?  "  inquired  Mr, 
Trott,  anxiously.  "  Wouldn't  it  save  appearances,  if  I  were 
placed  under  some  restraint  ? " 

"  Ah  !  "  replied  Overton,  "  very  good  thought — capital  idea 


THE  GREAT  WTNGLEBURY  DUEL. 


741 


indeed.  I'll  send  somebody  up  directly.  And  if  you  make  a 
little  resistance  when  we  put  you  in  the  chaise  it  wouldn't  be 
amiss — look  as  if  you  didn't  want  to  be  taken  away,  you 
know." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Trott — "  to  be  sure." 

"  Well,  my  lord,"  said  Overton,  in  a  low  tone,  "until  then, 
I  wish  your  lordship  a  good-evening." 

"  Lord — lordship  ?  "  ejaculated  Trott  again,  falling  back  a 
step  or  two,  and  gazing,  in  unutterable  wonder,  on  the  counte- 
nance of  the  mayor. 

"  Ha-ha  !  I  see,  my  lord — practising  the  madman  ? — very 
good  indeed — very  vacant  look — capital,  my  lord,  capital — 
good-evening,  Mr. — Trott — ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  " 

"  That  mayor's  decidedly  drunk,"  soliloquized  Mr.  Trott, 
throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  in  an  attitude  of  reflection. 

"  He  is  a  much  cleverer  fellow  than  I  thought  him,  that 
young  nobleman — he  carries  it  off  uncommonly  well,"  thought 
Overton,  as  he  went  his  way  to  the  bar,  there  to  complete  his 
arrangements.  This  was  soon  done.  Every  word  of  the 
story  was  implicitly  believed,  and  the  one-eyed  boots  was  im- 
mediately instructed  to  repair  to  number  nineteen  to  act  as 
custodian  of  the  person  of  the  supposed  lunatic  until  half-past 
twelve  o'clock.  In  pursuance  of  this  direction,  that  some- 
what eccentric  gentleman  armed  himself  with  a  walking-stick 
of  gigantic  dimensions,  and  repaired,  with  his  usual  equanimity 
of  manner,  to  Mr.  Trott's  apartment,  which  he  entered  with- 
out any  ceremony,  and  mounted  guard  in,  by  quietly  deposit- 
ing himself  on  a  chair  near  the  door,  where  he  proceeded  to 
beguile  the  time  by  whistling  a  popular  air  with  great  apparent 
satisfaction. 

What  do  you  want  here,  you  scoundrel  t  "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Alexander  Trott,  with  a  proper  appearance  of  indignation  at 
his  detention. 

The  boots  beat  time  with  his  head,  as  he  looked  gently 
round  at  Mr.  Trott  with  a  smile  of  pity,  and  whistled  an 
adagio  movement. 

"  Do  you  attend  in  this  room  by  Mr.  Overton's  desire  ?  " 
inquired  Trott,  rather  astonished  at  the  man's  demeanor. 

Keep  yourself  to  yourself,  young  feller,"  calmly  responded 
the  boots,  **and  don't  say  nothin'  to  nobody."  And  he 
whistled  again. 

Now,  mind  !"  ejaculated  Mr.  Trott,  anxious  to  keep  up 
the  farce  of  wishing  with  great  earnestness  to  fight  a  duel  ii 


742 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


they'd  let  him.  "  I  protest  against  being  kept  here.  I  deny 
that  I  have  any  intention  of  fighting  with  anybody.  But  as 
it's  useless  contending  with  superior  numbers,  I  shall  sit 
quietly  down." 

"  You'd  better,"  observed  the  placid  boots,  shaking  the 
large  stick  expressively. 

"  Under  protest,  however,"  added  Alexander  Trott,  seat 
ing  himself  with  indignation  in  his  face,  but  great  content  in 
his  heart.    "  Under  protest." 

"  Oh,  certainly  !  "  responded  the  boots  ;  "  anything  you 
please.  If  you're  happy,  I'm  transported  ;  only  don't  talk  too 
much — it'll  make  you  worse." 

Make  me  worse  t  "  exclaimed  Trott,  in  unfeigned  aston- 
ishment :     the  man's  drunk  !  " 

You'd  better  be  quiet,  young  feller,"  remarked  the  boots, 
going  through  a  threatening  piece  of  pantomime  with  the 
stick. 

"  Or  mad  1  "  said  Mr.  Trott,  rather  alarmed.    *'  Leave  the 
room,  sir,  and  tell  them  to  send  somebody  else." 
Won't  do  !  "  replied  the  boots. 

Leave  the  room !  "  shouted  Trott,  ringing  the  bell  vio- 
lently :  for  he  began  to  be  alarmed  on  a  new  score. 

Leave  that  'ere  bell  alone,  you  wretched  loo-nattic  ! " 
said  the  boots,  suddenly  forcing  the  unfortunate  Trott  back 
into  his  chair,  and  brandishing  the  stick  aloft.  "  Be  quiet, 
you  miserable  object,  and  don't  let  everybody  know  there's  a 
madman  in  the  house." 

"  He  is  a  madman  !  He  is  a  madman  !  "  exclaimed  the 
terrified  Mr.  Trott,  gazing  on  the  one  eye  of  the  red-headed 
boots  with  a  look  of  abject  horror. 

Madman  !  "  replied  the  boots,  "  dam'me,  I  think  he  is  a 
madman  with  a  vengeance  !  Listen  to  me,  you  unfort'nate. 
Ah !  would  you  ?  "  [a  slight  tap  on  the  head  with  the  large 
stick,  as  Mr.  Trott  made  another  move  towards  the  bell- 
handle]  "  I  caught  you  there  !  did  I  ?  " 

Spare  my  life  ! "  exclaimed  Trott,  raising  his  hands  im 
ploringly. 

"  I  aon't  want  your  life,"  replied  the  boots,  disdainfully. 
"  though  I  think  it  'ud  be  a  charity  if  somebody  took  it." 

"  No,  no,  it  wouldn't,"  interrupted  poor  Mr.  Trott,  hur- 
riedly ;  "  no,  no,  it  wouldn't !    I — I — 'd  rather  keep  it !  " 

"  O  werry  well,"  said  the  boots  :  "  that's  a  mere  mattei 
of  taste — ev'ry  one  to  his  liking.    Hows'ever,  all  I've  got  to 


THE  GREAT  WINGLEBURY  DUEL. 


743 


say  is  this  here  :  You  sit  quietly  down  in  that  chair,  and  I'll 
sit  hoppersite  you  here,  and  if  you  keep  quiet  and  don't  stir, 
I  won't  damage  you  ;  but,  if  you  move  hand  or  foot  till  halt- 
past  twelve  o'clock,  I  shall  alter  the  expression  of  your  coun- 
tenance so  completely,  that  the  next  time  you  look  in  the 
glass  you'll  ask  vether  you're  gone  out  of  town,  and  ven  you're 
likely  to  come  back  again.    So  sit  down." 

I  will — I  will,"  responded  the  victim  of  mistakes  ;  and 
down  sat  Mr.  Trott  and  down  sat  the  boots  too,  exactly  op- 
posite him,  with  the  stick  ready  for  immediate  action  in  case 
of  emergency. 

Long  and  dreary  were  the  hours  that  followed.  The  bell 
of  Great  VVinglebury  church  had  just  struck  ten,  and  two 
hours  and  a  half  would  probably  elapse  before  succor  arrived. 

For  half  an  hour,  the  noise  occasioned  by  shutting  up  the 
shops  in  the  street  beneath,  betokened  something  like  life  in 
the  town,  and  rendered  Mr.  Trott's  situation  a  little  less  in- 
supportable ;  but,  when  even  these  ceased,  and  nothing  was 
heard  beyond  the  occasional  rattling  of  a  post-chaise  as  it 
drove  up  the  yard  to  change  horses,  and  then  drove  away 
again,  or  the  clattering  of  horses'  hoofs  in  the  stables  behind, 
it  became  almost  unbearable.  The  boots  occasionally  moved 
an  inch  or  two,  to  knock  superfluous  bits  of  wax  off  the 
candles,  which  were  burning  low,  but  instantaneously  resumed 
his  former  position  ;  and  as  he  remembered  to  have  heard, 
somewhere  or  other,  that  the  human  eye  had  an  unfailing 
effect  in  controlling  mad  people,  he  kept  his  solitary  organ  of 
vision  constantly  fixed  on  Mr.  Alexander  Trott.  That  un 
fortunate  individual  stared  at  his  companion  in  his  turn,  until 
his  features  grew  more  and  more  indistinct — his  hair  gradually 
less  red — and  the  room  more  misty  and  obscure.  Mr.  Alex- 
ander Trott  fell  into  a  sound  sleep,  from  which  he.  was 
awakened  by  a  rumbling  in  the  street,  and  a  cry  of  **  Chaise- 
and-four  for  number  twenty-five !  "  A  bustle  on  the  stairs 
succeeded  ;  the  room  door  was  hastily  thrown  open  ;  and  Mr. 
Joseph  Overton  entered,  followed  by  four  stout  waiters,  and 
Mrs.  Williamson,  the  stout  landlady  of  the  Winglebury  Arms. 

Mr.  Overton  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Alexander  Trott,  jumping 
up  in  a  frenzy,  Look  at  this  man,  sir  ;  consider  the  situation 
in  which  I  have  been  placed  for  three  hours  past — the  person 
you  sent  to  guard  me,  sir,  was  a  madman — a  madman — a 
raging,  ravaging,  furious  madman." 

Bravo  !  "  whispered  Overton. 

«2 


744 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


"  Poor  dear !  "  said  the  compassionate  Mrs.  Williamson. 
"  mad  people  always  thinks  other  people's  mad." 

"Poor  dear!''  ejaculated  Mr.  Alexander  Trott.  "What 
the  devil  do  you  mean  by  poor  dear !  Are  you  the  landlady 
of  this  house  ? 

"  Yes,  yes,"  replied  the  stout  old  lady,  "  don't  exert  your 
self,  there's  a  dear  !    Consider  your  health,  now  5  do." 

"  Exert  myself !  "  shouted  Mr.  Alexander  Trott,  it's  a 
mercy,  ma'am,  that  1  have  any  breath  to  exert  myself  with ! 
I  might  have  been  assassinated  three  hours  ago  by  that  one- 
eyed  monster  with  the  oakum  head.  How  dare  you  have  a 
madman,  ma'am — how^  dare  you  have  a  madman,  to  assault 
and  terrify  the  visitors  to  your  house  ?  " 

I'll  never  have  another,"  said  Mrs.  Williamson,  casting 
a  look  of  reproach  at  the  mayor. 

"  Capital,  capital,"  whispered  Overton  again,  as  he  envel- 
oped Mr.  Alexander  Trott  in  a  thick  travelling-cloak. 

"  Capital,  sir !  "  exclaimed  Trott,  aloud,  ''it's  horrible. 
The  very  recollection  makes  me  shudder.  I'd  rather  fight 
four  duels  in  three  hours,  if  I  survived  the  first  three,  than 
I'd  sit  for  that  time  face  to  face  with  a  madman." 

"  Keep  it  up,  my  Lord,  as  you  go  down  stairs,"  whispered 
Overton,  ''your  bill  is  paid,  and  your  portmanteau  in  the 
chaise."  And  then  he  added  aloud,  "  Now,  waiters,  the  gen- 
tleman's ready." 

At  this  signal,  the  waiters  crowded  round  Mr.  Alexander 
Trott.  One  took  one  arm  ;  another,  the  other ;  a  third, 
walked  before  with  a  candle ;  the  fourth,  behind  with  another 
candle ;  the  boots  and  Mrs.  Williamson  brought  up  the  rear ; 
and  down  stairs  they  went :  Mr.  Alexander  Trott  expressing 
alternately  at  the  very  top  of  his  voice  either  his  feigned  re- 
luctance to  go,  or  his  unfeigned  indignation  at  being  shut  up 
with  a  madman. 

Mr.  Overton  was  waiting  at  the  chaise-door,  the  boys 
were  ready  mounted,  and  a  few  ostlers  and  stable  nondescripts 
were  standing  round  to  witness  the  departure  of  "  the  mad 
gentleman."  Mr.  Alexander  Trott's  foot  was  on  the  step, 
when  he  observed  (which  the  dim  light  had  prevented  his 
doing  before)  a  figure  seated  in  the  chaise,  closely  mufifled  up 
in  a  cloak  like  his  own. 

'*  Who's  that?  "  he  inquired  of  Overton,  in  a  whisper. 

"  Hush,  hush,"  replied  the  mayor :  "  the  other  party  of 
course." 


THE  GREAT  WINGLEBURY  DUEL, 


**  The  other  party !  "  exclaimed  Trott,  with  an  effort  to 
retreat. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  you'll  soon  find  that  out,  before  you  go  far,  I 
should  think— but  make  a  noise,  you'll  excite  suspicion  if  you 
whisper  to  me  so  much." 

I  won't  go  in  this  chaise  !  "  shouted  Mr.  Alexander  Trott, 
all  his  original  fears  recurring  with  tenfold  violence.  "I 
shall  be  assassinated — I  shall  be — " 

"  Bravo,  bravo,"  whispered  Overton.     "  I'll  push  you  in." 

"But  I  won't  go,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Trott.  Help  here, 
help  !  They're  carrying  me  away  against  my  will.  This  is  a 
plot  to  murder  me." 

"Poor  dear  !  "  said  Mrs.  Williamson  again. 

"  Now,  boys,  put  'em  along,"  cried  the  mayor,  pushing 
Trott  in  and  slamming  the  door.  "  Off  with  you,  as  quick  as 
you  can,  and  stop  for  nothing  till  you  come  to  the  next  stage 
—all  right ! " 

"  Horses  are  paid,  Tom,"  screamed  Mrs.  Williamson ; 
and  away  went  the  chaise,  at  the  rate  of  fourteen  miles  an 
hour,  with  Mr.  Alexander  Trott  and  Miss  Julia  Manners 
carefully  shut  up  in  the  inside. 

Mr.  Alexander  Trott  remained  coiled  up  in  one  corner  of 
the  chaise,  and  his  mysterious  companion  in  the  other,  for 
the  first  two  or  three  miles  ;  Mr.  Trott  edging  more  and  more 
into  his  corner,  as  he  felt  his  companion  gradually  edging 
more  and  more  from  hers  ;  and  vainly  endeavoring  in  the 
darkness  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  furious  face  of  the  sup- 
posed Horace  Hunter. 

"  We  may  speak  now,"  said  his  fellow  traveller,  at  length  ; 
"  the  postboys  can  neither  see  nor  hear  us." 

"  That's  not  Hunter's  voice  !  " — thought  Alexander,  aston- 
ished. 

"  Dear  Lord  Peter ! "  said  Miss  Julia,  most  winningly : 
putting  her  arm  on  Mr.  Trott's  shoulder.  "  Dear  Lord  Peter. 
Not  a  word  ? " 

"  Why,  it's  a  woman  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Trott,  in  a  low  tone 
of  excessive  wonder. 

"  Ah  !  Whose  voice  is  that }  "  said  Julia  ;  "  'tis  not  Lord 
Peter's." 

"  No, — it's  mine,"  replied  Mr.  Trott. 
"Yours!"  ejaculated  Miss  Julia  Manners;  "a  strange 
man  !    Gracious  heaven  !    How  came  you  here  1 " 

"Whoever  you  are,  you  might  have  known  that  I  cam« 


746 


SKETCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 


against  my  will,  ma'am,"  replied  Alexander,  "for  I  made 
noise  enough  when  I  got  in." 

"  Do  you  come  from  Lord  Peter  ?  "  inquired  Miss  Manners. 

"  Confound  Lord  Peter,"   replied  Trott   pettishly.    "  I 
don't  know  any  Lord  Peter.    I  never  heard  of  him  before  to- 
night, when  I've  been  Lord  Peter'd  by  one  and  Lord  Peter'd 
by  another,  till  I  verily  believe  I'm  mad,  or  dreaming — " 
Whither  are  we  going  ?  "  inquired  the  lady  tragically. 

"  How  should  /  know,  ma'am  "  replied  Trott  with  a 
singular  coolness  ;  for  the  events  of  the  evening  had  com- 
pletely hardened  him. 

"  Stop  !  stop !  "  cried  the  lady,  letting  down  the  front 
glasses  of  the  chaise. 

"  Stay,  my  dear  ma'am  ! "  said  Mr.  Trott,  pulling  the 
glasses  up  again  with  one  hand,  and  gently  squeezing  Miss 
Julia's  waist  with  the  other.  "  There  is  some  mistake  here  ; 
give  me  till  the  end  of  this  stage  to  explain  my  share  of  it. 
We  must  go  so  far ;  you  cannot  be  set  down  here  alone,  at 
this  hour  of  the  night." 

The  lady  consented  ;  the  mistake  was  mutually  explained. 
Mr.  Trott  was  a  young  man,  had  highly  promising  whiskers, 
an  undeniable  tailor,  and  an  insinuating  address — he  wanted 
nothing  but  valor,  and  who  wants  that  with  three  thousand 
a-year  ?  The  lady  had  this,  and  more ;  she  wanted  a  young 
husband,  and  the  only  course  open  to  Mr.  Trott  to  retrieve 
his  disgrace  was  a  rich  wife.  So,  they  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  would  be  a  pity  to  have  all  this  trouble  and  expense 
for  nothing ;  and  that  as  they  were  so  far  on  the  road  already, 
they  had  better  go  to  Gretna  Green,  and  marry  each  other ; 
and  they  did  so.  And  the  very  next  preceding  entry  in  the 
Blacksmith's  book,  was  an  entry  of  the  marriage  of  Emily 
Brown  with  Horace  Hunter.  Mr.  Hunter  took  his  wife  home, 
and  begged  pardon,  and  was  pardoned  ;  and  Mr.  Trott  took  his 
wife  home,  begged  pardon  too,  and  was  pardoned  also.  And 
Lord  Peter,  who  had  been  detained  beyond  his  time  by  drink- 
ing champagne  and  riding  a  steeple-chase,  went  back  to  the 
Honorable  Augustus  Flair's,  and  drank  more  champagne,  and 
rode  another  steeple-chase,  and  was  thrown  and  killed.  And 
Horace  Hunter  took  great  credit  to  himself  for  practising  on 
the  cowardice  of  Alexander  Trott ;  and  all  these  circumstances 
were  discovered  in  time,  and  carefully  noted  down;  and  if 
you  ever  stop  a  week  at  the  Winglebury  Arms,  they  will  give 
you  just  this  account  of  The  Great  Winglebury  Duel. 


MRS.  JOSEPH  PORTER, 


747 


CHAPTER  IX, 

MRS.  JOSEPH  PORTER. 

Most  extensive  were  the  preparations  at  Rose  Villa,  Clap 
ham  Rise,  vs\  the  occupation  of  Mr.  Gattleton  (a  stock-broker 
in  especially  comfortable  circumstances),  and  great  was  the 
anxiety  of  Mr.  Gattleton's  interesting  family,  as  the  day  fixed 
for  the  representation  of  the  Private  Play  which  had  been 

many  months  in  preparation,"  approached.  The  whole 
family  was  infected  with  the  mania  for  Private  Theatricals  ; 
the  house,  usually  so  clean  and  tidy,  was,  to  use  Mr.  Gattle- 
ton's expressive  description,  "  regularly  turned  out  o'  win- 
dows;" the  large  dining-room,  dismantled  of  its  furniture 
and  ornaments,  presented  a  strange  jumble  of  flats,  flies, 
wings,  lamps,  bridges,  clouds,  thunder  and  lightning,  festoons 
and  flowers,  daggers  and  foil,  .and  various  other  messes  in 
theatrical  slang  included  under  the  comprehensive  name  of 

properties."  The  bedrooms  were  crowded  with  scenery,  the 
kitchen  was  occupied  by  carpenters.  Rehearsals  took  place 
every  other  night  in  the  drawing-room,  and  every  sofa  in  the 
house  was  more  or  less  damaged  by  the  perseverance  and 
spirit  with  which  Mr.  Sempronius  Gattleton,  and  Miss  Lucina, 
rehearsed  the  smothering  scene  in  Othello  " — it  having  been 
determined  that  that  tragedy  should  form  the  first  portion  of 
the  evening's  entertainments. 

When  we're  a  leetle  more  perfect,  I  think  it  will  go  ad- 
mirably," said  Mr.  Sempronius,  addressing  his  corps  drama- 
tique^  at  the  conclusion  of  the  hundred  and  fiftieth  rehearsal. 
In  consideration  of  his  sustaining  the  trifling  inconvenience 
of  bearing  all  the  expenses  of  the  play,  Mr.  Sempronius  had 
been,  in  the  most  handsome  manner,  unanimously  elected 
stage-manager.  Evans,"  continued  Mr.  Gattleton,  the 
younger,  addressing  a  tall,  thin,  pale  young  gentleman,  with 
extensive  whiskers.    "  Evans,  you  play  Roderigo  beautifully.' 

Beautifully,"  echoed  the  three  Miss  Gattletons  ;  for  Mr. 
Evans  was  pronounced  by  all  his  lady  friends  to  be  "  quite  a 
dear."   He  looked  so  interesting,  and  had  such  lovely  whis- 
.  kers  :  to  say  nothing  of  his  talent  for  writing  verses  in  albums 
and  playing  the  flute  !    Roderigo  simpered  and  bowed. 


748  SKE  rCHES  B  V  BOZ. 

"  But  I  think,"  added  the  manager,  "you  are  hardly  peiv 
feet  in  the — fall— in  the  fencing-scene,  where  you  are — you 
understand  ? " 

"  It's  very  difficult,"  said  Mr.  Evans,  thoughtfully  ;  "  I've 
fallen  about,  a  good  deal,  in  our  counting-house  lately,  for 
practice,  only  I  find  it  hurts  one  so.  Being  obliged  to  fall 
backward  you  see,  it  bruises  one's  head  a  good  deal." 

"  But  you  must  take  care  you  don't  knock  a  wing  down," 
said  Mr,  Gattleton,  the  elder,  who  had  been  appointed  promp- 
ter, and  who  took  as  much  interest  in  the  play  as  the  young- 
est of  the  company.    "The  stage  is  very  narrow,  you  know." 

"  Oh  !  don't  be  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Evans,  with  a  very  self- 
satisfied  air :  "  I  shall  fall  with  my  head  '  off,'  and  then  I  can't 
do  any  harm." 

"  But,  egad,"  said  the  manager,  rubbing  his  hands,  "  we 
shall  make  a  decided  hit  in  '  Masaniello.'  Harleigh  sings 
that  music  admirably." 

Everybo(J^  echoed  the  sentiment.  Mr.  Harleigh  smiled, 
and  looked  foolish — not  an  unusual  thing  with  him — hummed 
"  Behold  how  brightly  breaks  the  morning,"  and  blushed  as 
red  as  the  fisherman's  nightcap  he  was  trying  on. 

"  Let's  see,"  resumed  the  manager,  telling  the  number  on 
his  fingers,  "we  shall  have  three  dancing  female  peasants, 
besides  Fenella^  and  four  fishermen.  Then,  there's  our  man 
Tom  ;  he  can  have  a  pair  of  ducks  of  mine,  and  a  check  shirt 
of  Bob's,  and  a  red  nightcap,  and  he'll  do  for  another — that's 
five.  In  the  choruses,  of  course,  we  can  sing  at  the  sides  ; 
and  in  the  market-scene  we  can  walk  about  in  cloaks  and 
things.  When  the  revolt  takes  place,  Tom  must  keep  rushing 
in  on  one  side  and  out  on  the  other,  with  a  pickaxe,  as  fast  as 
he  can.  The  effect  will  be  electrical  ;  it  will  look  exactly  as  if 
there  were  aiT  immense  number  of  'em.  And  in  the  eruption 
scene  we  must  burn  the  red  fire,  and  upset  the  tea-trays,  and 
make  all  sorts  of  noises — and  it's  sure  to  do." 

"  Sure  !  sure !  "  cried  all  the  performers  una  voce — and 
away  hurried  Mr.  Sempronius  Gattleton  to  wash  the  burnt 
cork  off  his  face,  and  superintend  the  "  setting  up  "  of  some 
of  the  amateur-painted,  but  never-sufficiently-to-be-admired, 
scenery. 

Mrs.  Gattleton  was  a  kind,  good-tempered,  vulgar  soul, 
exceedingly  fond  of  her  husband  and  children,  and  entertain- 
ing only  three  dislikes.  In  the  first  place,  she  had  a  nat- 
ural antipathy  to  anybody  else's  unmarried  daughters  ;  in  the 


MRS.  JOSEPH  PORTER. 


749 


second,  she  was  in  bodily  fear  of  anything  in  the  shape  of 
ridicule  ;  lastly — almost  a  necessary  consequence  of  this  feel- 
ing— she  regarded,  with  feelings  of  the  utmost  horror,  one 
Mrs.  Joseph  Porter  over  the  way.  However,  the  good  folks 
of  Clapham  and  its  vicinity  stood  very  much  in  awe  of  scandal 
and  sarcasm  ;  and  thus  Mrs.  Joseph  Porter  was  courted,  and 
flattered,  and  caressed,  and  invited,  for  much  the  same  reason 
that  induces  a  poor  author,  without  a  farthing  in  his  pocket, 
to  behave  with  extraordinary  civility  to  a  two-penny  postman. 

Never  mind,  ma,*'  said  Miss  Emma  Porter,  in  colloquy 
with  her  respected  relative,  and  trying  to  look  unconcerned ; 
"  if  they  had  invited  me,  you  know  that  neither  you  nor  pa 
would  have  allowed  me  to  take  part  in  such  an  exhibition." 

"  Just  what  I  should  have  thought  from  your  high  sense  of 
propriety,  returned  the  mother.  I  am  glad  to  see,  Emma, 
you  know  how  to  designate  the  proceeding."  Miss  P.,  by 
the  bye,  had  only  the  week  before  made  an  exhibition  "  of 
herself  for  four  days,  behind  a  counter  at  a  fancy  fair,  to  all 
and  every  of  her  Majesty's  liege  subjects  who  were  disposed 
to  pay  a  shilling  each  for  the  privilege  of  seeing  some  four 
dozen  girls  flirting  with  strangers,  and  playing  at  shop. 

"There!"  said  Mrs.  Porter,  looking  out  of  window; 
"  there  are  two  rounds  of  beef  and  a  ham  going  in — clearly 
for  sandwiches  ;  and  Thomas,  the  pastry-cook,  sa^^s,  there 
have  been  twelve  dozen  tarts  ordered,  besides  blanc-mange 
and  jellies.  Upon  my  word  !  think  of  the  Miss  Gattletons  in 
fancy  dresses,  too  !  " 

Oh,  it's  too  ridiculous !  "  said  Miss  Porter,  hysterically. 

"  I'll  manage  to  put  them  a  little  out  of  conceit  with  the 
business,  however,"  said  Mrs.  Porter  ;  and  out  she  went  on 
her  charitable  errand. 

Well,  my  dear  Mrs.  Gattleton,"  said  Mrs.  Joseph  Porter, 
after  they  had  been  closeted  for  some  time,  and  when,  by 
dint  of  indefatigable  pumping,  she  had  managed  to  extract  all 
the  news  about  the  play,  well,  my  dear,  people  may  say 
what  they  please  ;  indeed  we  know  they  will,  for  some  folks 
are  so  ill-natured.  Ah,  my  dear  Miss  Lucina,  how  d'ye  do  ? 
I  was  just  telling  your  mamma  that  I  have  heard  it  said, 
that  " 

"What?" 

"  Mrs.  Porter  is  alluding  to  the  play,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Gattleton ;  "  she  was,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  just  informing  me 
that  " 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


"  Oh,  now  pray  don't  mention  it,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Por- 
ter ;  it's  most  absurd — quite  as  absurd  as  young  What's-his- 
name  saying  he  wondered  how  Miss  Caroline,  with  such  a 
foot  and  ankle,  could  have  the  vanity  to  play  Fenella,^^ 

"  Highly  impertinent,  whoever  said  it,"  said  Mrs.  Gattle- 
ten,  bridling  up. 

Certainly,  my  dear,"  chimed  in  the  delighted  Mrs.  Porter ; 
"  most  undoubtedly !  Because,  as  I  said,  if  Miss  Caroline 
does  play  Fenella,  it  doesn't  follow,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that 
she  should  think  she  has  a  pretty  foot ; — and  then — such  pup- 
pies as  these  young  men  are — he  had  the  impudence  to  say, 
that  " 

How  far  the  amiable  Mrs.  Porter  might  have  succeeded  in 
her  pleasant  purpose,  it  is  impossible  to  say,  had  not  the  en- 
trance of  Mr.  Thomas  Balderstone,  Mrs.  Gattleton's  brother, 
familiarly  called  in  the  family  "  Uncle  Tom,"  changed  the 
course  of  conversation,  and  suggested  to  her  mind  an  excellent 
plan  of  operation  on  the  evening  of  the  play. . 

Uncle  Tom  was  very  rich,  and  exceedingly  fond  of  his 
nephews  and  nieces  :  as  a  matter  of  course,  therefore,  he  was 
an  object  of  great  importance  in  his  own  family.  He  was  one 
of  the  best-hearted  men  in  existence  :  always  in  a  good 
temper,  and  always  talking.  It  was  his  boast  that  he  wore 
top-boots  on  all  occasions,  and  had  never  worn  a  black  silk 
neckerchief  :  and  it  was  his  pride  that  he  remembered  all  the 
principal  playo  of  Shakspeare  from  beginning  to  end — and  so 
he  did.  The  result  of  this  parrot-like  accomplishment  was, 
that  he  was  not  only  perpetually  quoting  himself,  but  that  he 
could  never  sit  by,  and  hear  a  misquotation  from  the  "  Swan 
of  Avon  "  without  setting  the  unfortunate  delinquent  right. 
He  was  also  something  of  a  wag ;  never  missed  an  opportu- 
nity of  saying  what  he  considered  a  good  thing,  and  invari- 
ably laughed  until  he  cried  at  anything  that  appeared  to  him 
mirth-moving  or  ridiculous. 

"  Well,  girls  1  "  said  Uncle  Tom,  after  the  preparatory 
ceremony  of  kissing   and  how-d'ye-do-ing  had  been  gone 
through — "  how  d'ye  get  on  ?  Know  your  parts,  eh  : — Lncina, 
my  dear,  act  ii.,  scene  i — place,  left — cue—-'  Unknown  fate, 
What's  next,  eh  ? — Go  on — '  The  Heavens — '  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Miss  Lucina,     I  recollect — 

'  The  heavens  forbid 
But  that  our  loves  and  comforts  should  increase 
kven  as  cur  days  do  grow  !  '  *' 


MRS,  JOSEPH  PORTER. 


Make  a  pause  here  and  there,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
who  was  a  great  critic.  "  *  But  that  our  loves  and  comforts 
should  increase  ' — emphasis  on  the  last  syllable,  'crease,' — 
loud  *  even,' — one,  two,  three,  four ;  then  loud  again,  '  as  our 
days  do  grow  ; '  emphasis  on  days.  That's  the  way,  my  dear  ; 
trust  to  your  uncle  for  emphasis.  Ah  !  Sem,  my  boy,  how  are 
you  ? " 

"  Very  well,  thankee,  uncle,"  returned  Mr.  Sempronius, 
who  had  just  appeared,  looking  something  like  a  ringdove, 
with  a  small  circle  round  each  eye  :  the  result  of  his  constant 
corking.    "  Of  course  we  see  you  on  Thursday." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  my  dear  boy." 

What  a  pity  it  is  your  nephew  didn't  think  of  making  you 
prompter,  Mr.  Balderstone  !  "  whispered  Mrs.  Joseph  Porter ; 
"you  would  have  been  invaluable." 

Well,  I  flatter  myself,  I  should  have  been  tolerably  up  to 
the  thing,"  responded  Uncle  Tom.  , 

I  must  bespeak  sitting  next  you  on  the  night,"  resumed 
Mrs.  Porter ;  and  then,  if  our  dear  young  friends  here, 
should  be  at  all  wrong,  you  will  be  able  to  enlighten  me.  I 
shall  be  so  interested." 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  give  you  any  assist- 
ance in  my  power." 

"  Mind,  it's  a  bargain." 

"Certainly." 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Gattleton  to  her 
daughters,  as  they  were  sitting  round  the  fire  in  the  evening, 
looking  over  their  parts,  but  I  really  very  much  wish  Mrs. 
Joseph  Porter  w^asn't  coming  on  Thursday.  I  am  sure  she's 
scheming  something." 

"She  can't  make //i*  ridiculous,  however,"  observed  Mr. 
Sempronius  Gattleton,  haughtily. 

"  The  long-looked-for  Thursday  arrived  in  due  course,  and 
brought  with  it,  as  Mr.  Gatdeton,  senior,  philosophically  ob- 
served, "  no  disappointments,  to  speak  of."  True,  it  was  yet 
a  matter  of  doubt  whether  Cassio  would  be  enabled  to  get 
into  the  dress  which  had  been  sent  for  him  from  the  masquer- 
ade warehouse.  It  was  equally  uncertain  whether  the  princi- 
pal female  singer  would  be  sufficiently  recovered  from  the  in- 
fluenza to  make  her  appearance  ;  Mr.  Harleigh,  the  Masaniello 
of  the  night,  was  hoarse,  and  rather  unwell,  in  consequence  of 
the  great  quantity  of  lemon  and  sugar-candy  he  had  eaten  to 
improve  his  voice ;  and  two  flutes  and  a  violoncello  had 


752 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


pleaded  severe  colds.  What  of  that  ?  the  audience  were  all 
coming.  Everybody  knew  his  part :  the  dresses  were  covered 
with  tinsel  and  spangles ;  the  white  plumes  looked  beautiful ; 
Mr.  Evans  had  practised  falling  until  he  was  bruised  from 
head  to  foot  and  quite  perfect ;  lago  was  sure  that,  in  the* 
stabbing -scene,  he  should  make  a  decided  hit."  A  self- 
taught  deaf  gentleman,  who  had  kindly  offered  to  bring  his 
flute,  would  be  a  most  valuable  addition  to  the  orchestra  \ 
Miss  Jenkins's  talent  for  the  piano  was  too  well  known  to  be 
doubted  for  an  instant ;  Mr.  Cape  had  practised  the  violin 
accompaniment  with  her  frequently  ;  and  Mr.  Brown,  who 
had  kindly  undertaken,  at  a  few  hours'  notice,  to  bring  his 
violoncello,  would,  no  doubt,  manage  extremely  well. 

Seven  o'clock  came,  and  so  did  the  audience  ;  all  the  rank 
and  fashion  of  Clapham  and  its  vicinity  was  fast  filling  the 
theatre.  There  were  the  Smiths,  the  Gubbinses,  the  Nixons, 
the  Dixons,  the  Hickscv^s,  people  with  all  sorts  of  names, 
two  aldermen,  a  sheriff  in  perspective,  Sir  Thomas  Glumper 
(who  had  been  knighted  in  the  last  reign  for  carrying  up  an 
address  on  somebody's  escaping  from  nothing)  ;  and  last,  not 
least,  there  were  Mrs.  Joseph  Porter  and  Uncle  Tom,  seated 
in  the  centre  of  the  third  row  from  the  stgge  ;  Mrs.  P.  amus- 
ing Uncle  Tom  with  all  sorts  of  stories,  and  Uncle  Tom 
amusing  every  one  else  by  laughing  most  immoderately. 

Ting,  ting,  ting  !  went  the  prompter's  bell  at  eight  o'clock 
precisely,  and  dash  went  the  orchestra  into  the  overture  to 
"The  Men  of  Prometheus."  The  piano-forte  player  ham- 
mered away  with  laudable  perseverance  ;  and  the  violoncello, 
which  struck  in  at  intervals,  "  sounded  ver}' well,  considering." 
The  unfortunate  individual,  however,  who  had  undertaken  to 
play  the  flute  accompaniment  at  sight,"  found,  from  fatal 
experience,  the  perfect  truth  of  the  old  adage,  "  out  of  sight, 
out  of  mind  ; "  for  being  very  near-sighted,  and  being  placed 
at  a  considerable  distance  from  his  music-book,  all  he  had  an 
opportunity  of  doing  was  to  play  a  bar  now  and  then  in  the 
wrong  place,  and  put  the  other  performers  out.  It  is,  however, 
but  justice  to  Mr.  Brown  to  say  that  he  did  this  to  admiration. 
The  overture,  in  fact,  was  not  unlike  a  race  between  the 
different  instruments  ;  the  piano  came  in  first  by  several 
bars,  and  the  violoncello  next,  quite  distancing  the  poor  flute  ^ 
for  the  deaf  gentleman  too-too'd  away,  quite  unconscious  that 
he  was  at  all  wrong,  until  apprised,  by  the  applause  of  the 
audience,  that  the  overture  was  concluded.    A  considerable 


MRS.  JOSEPH  PORTER. 


753 


bustle  and  shuffling  of  feet  was  then  heard  upon  tne  stage  ac- 
companied by  whispers  of  "  Here's  a  pretty  go  ! — what's  to 
be  done  ?  "  &c.  The  audience  applauded  again,  by  way  of 
raising  the  spirits  of  the  performers  ;  and  then  Mr.  Sempro- 
nius  desired  the  prompter,  in  a  very  audible  voice,  to  clear 
the  stage,  and  ring  up." 

Ting,  ting,  ting !  went  the  bell  again.  Everybody  sat 
down  ;  the  curtain  shook ;  rose  sufficiently  high  to  display 
several  pair  of  yellow  boots  paddling  about  ;  and  there  re- 
mained. 

Ting,  ting,  ting !  went  the  bell  again.  The  curtain  was 
violently  convulsed,  but  rose  no  higher;  the  audience  tittered  ; 
Mrs.  Porter  looked  at  Uncle  Tom  \  Uncle  Tom  looked  at 
everybody,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  laughing  with  perfect  rap- 
ture. After  as  much  ringing  with  the  little  bell  as  a  muffin- 
boy  would  make  in  going  down  a  tolerably  long  street,  and  a 
vast  deal  of  whispering,  hammering,  and  calling  for  nails  and 
cord,  the  curtain  at  length  rose,  and  discovered  Mr.  Sem- 
pronius  Gattleton  solus.,  and  decked  for  Othello.  After  three 
distinct  rounds  of  applause,  during  which  Mr.  Sempronius 
applied  his  right  hand  to  his  left  breast,  and  bowed  in  the 
most  approved«iianner,  the  manager  advanced  and  said : 

"  Ladies  and  Gentlemen — I  assure  you  it  is  with  sincere 
regret,  that  I  regret  to  be  compelled  to  inform  you,  that  lago 
who  was  to  have  played  Mr.  Wilson — I  beg  your  pardon, 
Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  but  I  am  naturally  somewhat  agitated 
(applause)  I  mean,  Mr.  Wilson,  who  was  to  have  played  Jago^ 
is — that  is,  has  been — or,  in  other  words.  Ladies  and  Gentle- 
men, the  fact  is,  that  I  have  just  received  a  note,  in  which  I 
am  informed  that  lago  is  unavoidably  detained  at  the  Post- 
office  this  evening.  Under  these  circumstances,  I  trust — a — 
a — amateur  performance — a — another  gentleman  undertaken 
to  read  the  part — request  indulgence  for  a  short  time — 
courtesy  and  kindness  of  a  British  audience."  Overwhelming 
applause.    Exit  Mr.  Sempronius  Gattleton,  and  curtain  falls. 

The  audience  were,  of  course,  exceedingly  good-humored ; 
the  whole  business  was  a  joke  ;  and  accordingly  they  waited 
for  an  hour  with  the  utmost  patience,  being  enlivened  by  an 
interlude  of  rout-cakes  and  lemonade.  It  appeared  by  Mr. 
Sempronius's  subsequent  explanation,  that  the  delay  would 
not  have  been  so  great,  had  it  not  so  happened  that  when 
the  substitute  lago  had  finished  dressing,  and  just  as  the 
play  was  on  the  point  of  commencing,  the  original  lago  unex- 

8 


SKETCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 

pectedly  arrived.  The  former  was  therefore  compelled  to 
undress,  and  the  latter  to  dress  for  his  part ;  which,  as  he 
found  some  difficulty  in  getting  into  his  clothes,  occupied  no 
inconsiderable  time.  At  last,  the  tragedy  began  in  real 
earnest.  It  went  off  well  enough,  until  the  third  scene  ot 
the  first  act,  in  which  Othello  addresses  the  Senate :  the  only 
remarkable  circumstance  being,  that  as  Jago  could  not  get  on 
any  of  the  stage  boots,  in  consequence  of  his  feet  being  vio 
lently  swelled  with  the  heat  and  excitement,  he  was  undei 
the  necessity  of  playing  the  part  in  a  pair  of  Wellingtons, 
which  contrasted  rather  oddly  with  his  richly  embroidered 
pantaloons.  When  Othello  started  wiin  his  address  to  the 
Senate  (whose  dignity  was  represented  by,  the  Duke,  a  car- 
penter, two  men  engaged  on  the  recommendation  of  the  gar- 
dener, and  a  boy),  Mrs.  Porter  found  the  opportunity  she  sc 
anxiously  sought. 

Mr.  Sempronius  proceeded: 

**  *  Most  potent,  grave  and  reverend  signiors, 
My  very  noble  and  approv'd  good  masters, 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  old  man's  daughter, 
It  is  most  true  ; — rude  am  I  in  my  speech  '  " 

"  Is  that  right  ?  "  whispered  Mrs.  Porter  to  Uncle  Tom. 
"No.'' 

"  Tell  him  so,  then." 

"  I  will.  Sem  !  "  called  out  Uncle  Tom,  "  that's  wrong, 
my  boy." 

"  What's  wrong.  Uncle  }  "  demanded  Othello,  quite  for- 
getting the  dignity  of  his  situation. 

"  You've  left  out  something.    '  True  I  have  married  ' " 

"  Oh,  ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Sempronius,  endeavoring  to  hide  his 
confusion  as  much  and  as  ineffectually  as  the  audience  at- 
tempted to  conceal  their  half-suppressed  tittering,  by  coughing 
with  extraordinary  violence — 

 "  '  true  I  have  married  her  ; 

The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending 
Hath  this  extent  ;  no  more.' 

{Aside)  Why  don't  you  prompt,  father?  " 

"Because  I've  mislaid  my  spectacles,"  said  poor  Mr.  Gat- 
tleton,  almost  dead  with  the^heat  and  bustle. 

"  There,  now  it's  '  rude  am  I,'  "  said  Uncle  Tom. 

"Yes,  I  know  it  is,"  returned  the  unfortunate  manager^ 
proceeding  with  his  part. 

It  would  be  useless  and  tiresome  to  quote  the  number  of 


MRS.  JOSEPH  FOR  TER.  755 

instanc/s  in  which  Uncle  Tom,  now  completely  in  his  element, 
and  instigated  by  the  mischievous  Mrs.  Porter,  corrected  the 
mistakes  of  the  performers ;  suffice  it  to  say,  that  having 
mounted  his  hobby,  nothing  could  induce  him  to  dismount ; 
so,  during  the  whole  remainder  of  the  play,  he  performed  a 
kind  of  running  accompaniment,  by  muttering  everybody's 
part  as  it  was  being  delivered,  in  an  under  tone.  The 
audience  were  highly  amused,  Mrs.  Porter  delighted,  the  per- 
formers embarrassed  ;  Uncle  Tom  never  was  better  pleased 
in  all  his  life ;  and  Uncle  Tom's  nephews  and  nieces  had 
never,  although  the  declared  heirs  to  his  large  property,  so 
heartily  wished  him  gathered  to  his  fathers  as  on  that  memor- 
able occasion. 

Several  other  minor  causes,  too,  united  to  damp  the  ardor 
of  the  dramatis  personce.  None  of  the  performers  could 
walk  in  their  tights,  or  move  their  arms  in  their  jackets  ;  the 
pantaloons  were  too  small,  the  boots  too  large,  and  the  swords 
of  all  shapes  and  sizes.  Mr.  Evans,  naturally  too  tall  for  the 
scenery,  wore  a  black  velvet  hat  with  immense  white  plumes, 
the  glory  of  which  was  lost  in  the  flies  ;  "  and  the  only  other 
inconvenience  of  which  was,  that  when  it  was  off  his  head  he 
could  not  put  it  on,  and  when  it  was  on  he  could  not  take 
it  off.  Notwithstanding  all  his  practice,  too,  he  fell  with  his 
head  and  shdulders  as  neatly  through  one  of  the  side  scenes, 
as  a  harlequin  would  jump  through  a  panel  in  a  Christmas 
pantomime.  The  pianoforte  player,  overpowered  by  the  ex- 
treme heat  of  the  room,  fainted  away  at  the  commencement  of 
the  entertainment,  leaving  the  music  of  "  Masaniello  "  to  the 
flute  and  yoloncello.  The  orchestra  complained  that  Mr. 
Harleigh  put  them  out,  and  Mr.  Harleigh  declared  that  the 
orchestra  prevented  his  singing  a  note.  The  fishermen,  who 
were  hired  for  the  occasion,  revolted  to  the  very  life,  posi- 
tively refusing  to  play  without  an  increased  allowance  of 
spirits  ;  and,  their  demand  being  complied  with,  getting  drunk 
in  the  eruption  scene  as  naturally  as  possible.  The  red  fire, 
which  was  burnt  at  the  conclusion  of  the  second  act,  not  only 
nearly  suffocated  the  audience,  but  nearly  set  the  house  on  fire 
into  the  bargain  ;  and,  as  it  was,  the  remainder  of  the  piece 
was  acted  in  a  thick  fog. 

In  short,  the  whole  affair  was,  as  Mrs.  Joseph  Porter 
triumphantly  told  everybody,  "a  complete  failure."  The 
audience  went  home  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  exhausted 
with  laughter,  suffering  from  severe  headaches,  and  smelling 


75^ 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


terribly  of  brimstone  and  gunpowder.  The  Messrs.  Gattleton, 
senior  and  junior,  retired  to  rest,  with  the  vague  idea  of  emi- 
grating to  Swan  River  early  in  the  ensuing  week. 

Rose  Villa  has  once  again  resumed  its  wonted  appear- 
ance ;  the  dining-room  furniture  has  been  replaced;  the  tables 
are  as  nicely  polished  as  formerly  :  the  horsehair  chairs  are 
ranged  against  the  wall,  as  regularly  as  ever ;  Venetian  blinds 
have  been  fitted  to  every  window  in  the  house  to  intercept  the 
prying  gaze  of  Mrs.  Joseph  Porter.  The  subject  of  theatri- 
cals is  never  mentioned  in  the  Gattleton  family,  unless, 
indeed,  by  Uncle  Tom,  who  cannot  refrain  from  sometimes 
expressing  his  surprise  and  regret  at  finding  that  his  nephews 
and  nieces  appear  to  have  lost  the  relish  they  once  possessed 
for  the  beauties  of  Shakspeare,  and  quotations  from  the  works 
of  that  immortal  bard. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  PASSAGE  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  MR.  WATKINS  TOTTLE. 
CHAPTER  THE  FIRST. 

Matrimony  is  proverbially  a  serious  undertaking.  Like 
an  overweening  predilection  for  brandy  and  water,  it  is  a  mis- 
fortune into  which  a  man  easily  falls,  and  from  which  he  finds 
it  remarkably  difficult  to  extricate  himself.  It  is  of  no  use 
telling  a  man  who  is  timorous  on  these  points,  that  it  is 
but  one  plunge,  and  all  is  over.  They  say  the  same  thing  at 
the  Old  Bailey,  and  the  unfortunate  victims  derive  as  much 
comfort  from  the  assurance  in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  was  a  rather  uncommon  compound  of 
strong  uxorious  inclinations,  and  an  unparalleled  degree  of 
anti-connubial  timidity.  He  was  about  fifty  years  of  age  ; 
stood  four  feet  six  inches  and  three-quarters  in  his  socks — for 
he  never  stood  in  stockings  at  all — plump,  clean,  and  rosy. 
He  looked  something  like  a  vignette  to  one  of  Richardson's 
novels,  and  had  a  clean-cravatish  formality  of  manner,  and 
kitchen-pokerness  of  carriage,  which  Sir  Charles  Grandi- 


MR,  WATKINS  TOTTLE. 


757 


son  himself  might  have  envied.  He  lived  on  an  annuity, 
which  was  well  adapted  to  the  individual  who  received  it,  in 
one  respect — it  was  rather  sma^l.  He  received  it  in  periodi- 
cal payments  on  every  alternat«e  Monday ;  but  he  ran  himself 
out,  about  a  day  after  the  expiration  of  the  first  week,  ar. 
regularly  as  an  eight-day  clock  ;  and  then,  to  make  the  com- 
parison complete,  his  landlady  wound  him  up,  and  he  went  on 
with  a  regular  tick. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  had  long  lived  in  the  state  of  single 
blessedness,  as  bachelors  say,  or  single  cursedness,  as  spin- 
sters think  ;  but  the  idea  of  matrimony  had  never  ceased  to 
haunt  him.  Wrapt  in  profound  reveries  on  this  never-failing 
theme,  fancy  transformed  his  small  parlor  in  Cecil-street,  Strand, 
into  a  neat  house  in  the  suburbs;  the  half-hundredweight  of  coals 
under  the  kitchen-stairs  suddenly  sprang  up  into  three  tons  of 
the  best  Walls-end  ;  his  small  French  bedstead  was  converted 
into  a  regulai  matrimonial  four-poster ;  and  in  the  empty 
chair  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire-place,  imagination  seated 
a  beautiful  young  lady  with  a  very  little  independence  or  will 
of  her  own,  and  a  very  large  independence  under  a  will  of  her 
father's. 

Who's  there?  "  inquired  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  as  a  gentle 
tap  at  his  room  door  disturbed  these  meditations  one  even- 
ing. 

"  Tottle,  my  dear  fellow,  how  do  you  do  ?  "  said  a  short 
elderly  gentleman  with  a  gruffish  voice,  bursting  into  the 
room,  and  replying  to  the  question  by  asking  another. 

Told  you  I  should  drop  in  some  evening,"  said  the  short 
gentleman,  as  he  delivered  his  hat  into  Tottle's  hand,  after  a 
little  struggling  and  dodging. 

Delighted  to  see  you,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  • 
wishing  internally  that  his  visitor  had  "dropped  in"  to  the 
Thames  at  the  bottom  of  the  street,  instead  of  dropping. into 
his  parlor.    The  fortnight  was  nearly  up,  and  Watkins  was 
hard  up. 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Gabriel  Parsons  ?  ^'  inquired  Tottle. 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you,"  replied  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  for 
that  was  the  name  the  short  gentleman  revelled  in.  Here 
there  was  a  pause;  the  short  gentleman  looked  at  the  left  hob 
of  the  fireplace  ;  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  stared  vacancy  out  of 
countenance. 

Quite  well,"  repeated  the  short  gentleman,  when  five 
minutes  had  expired.    "  I  may  say  remarkably  well."  And 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


he  rubbed  the  palms  of  his  hands  as  hard  as  if  he  were  going 
to  strike  a  Hght  by  friction. 

"  What  will  you  take  ?"  inquired  Tottle,  with  the  desperate 
suddenness  of  a  man  who  knew  that  unless  the  visitor  took 
his  leave,  he  stood  very  little  chance  of  taking  anything  else. 
Oh,  I  don't  know — have  you  any  whiskey  ?  " 
Why,"  replied  Tottle  very  slowly,  for  all  this  was  gaining 
time,    I  had  some  capital,  and  remarkably  strong  whiskey 

last  week  ;  but  it's  all  gone — and  therefore  its  strength  " 

Is  much  beyond  proof  ;  or,  in  other  words,  impossible  to 
be  proved,"  said  the  short  gentleman  ;  and  he  laughed  very 
heartily,  and  seemed  quite  glad  the  whiskey  had  been  drunk. 
Mr.  Tottle  smiled — but  it  was  the  smile  of  despair.  When 
Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  had  done  laughing,  he  delicately  insinu- 
ated that,  in  the  absence  of  whiskey,  he  would  not  be  averse 
to  brandy.  And  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  lighting  a  flat  candle 
very  ostentatiously  ;  and  displaying  an  immense  key,  which 
belonged  to  the  street-door,  but  which,  for  the  sake  of  appear- 
ances, occasionally  did  duty  in  an  imaginary  wine-cellar  ;  left 
the  room  to  entreat  his  landlady  to  charge  their  glasses,  and 
charge  them  in  the  bill.  The  application  was  successful ;  the 
spirits  were  speedily  called — not  from  the  vasty  deep,  but  the 
adjacent  wine-vaults.  The  two  short  gentlemen  mixed  their 
grog  ;  and  then  sat  cosily  down  before  the  fire — a  pair  of 
shorts,  airing  themselves. 

"Tottle,"  said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  "you  know  my  way 
— off-hand,  open,  say  what .  I  mean,  mean  what  I  say,  hate 
reserve,  and  can't  bear  affectation.  One,  is  a  bad  domino, 
which  only  hides  what  good  people  have  about'  em,  without 
making  the  bad  look  better  ;  and  the  other  is  much  about  the 
same  thing  as  pinking  a  white  cotton  stocking  to  make  it  look- 
like  a  silk  one.    Now  listen  to  what  I^m  going  to  say." 

Here,  the  little  gentleman  paused,  and  took  a  long  pull  at 
his  brandy-and-water.  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  took  a  sip  of  his, 
stirred  the  fire,  and  assumed  an  air  of  profound  attention. 

"  It's  of  no  use  humming  and  ha'ing  about  the  matter," 
resumed  the  short  gentleman. — "You  want  to  get  married." 

"  Why,"  replied  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  evasively  ;  for  he 
trembled  violently,  and  felt  a  sudden  tingling  throughout 
his  whole  frame ;  "  why — I  should  certainly — at  least  I  thmk 
I  should  like—" 

"  Won't  do,"  said  the  short  gentleman. — "  Plain  and  free 
— or  there's  an  end  of  the  matter.    Do  you  want  money  .^" 


MR.  W ATKINS  TOTTLE. 


759 


"You  know  I  do." 

You  admire  the  sex 
"I  do." 

"  And  you'd  like  to  be  married  ? " 
"  Certainly." 

Then  you  shall  be.  There's  an  end  of  that."  Thus 
saying,  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  mixed 
another  glass. 

Let  me  entreat  you  to  be  more  explanatory,"  said  Tottle. 
Really,  as  the  party  principally  interested,  I  cannot  consent 
to  be  disposed  of  in  this  way." 

I'll  tell  you,"  replied  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  warming  with 
the  subject,  and  the  brandy-and -water — "  I  know  a  lady — 
she's  stopping  with  my  wife  now — who  is  just  the  thing  for 
you.  Well  educated  ;  talks  French  ;  plays  the  piano  ;  knows 
a  good  deal  about  flowers,  and  shells,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ; 
and  has  five  hundred  a  year,  with  an  uncontrolled  power  of 
disposing  of  it,  by  her  last  will  and  testament." 

"  I'll  pay  my  addresses  to  her,"  said  Mr.  VVatkins  Tottle. 
She  isn't  very  young — is  she  ?  " 
"  Not  very ;  just  the  thing  for  you.    I've  said  that  al- 
ready." 

"  What  colored  hair  has  the  lady  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Watkins 
Tottle. 

Egad,  I  hardly  recollect,"  replied  Gabriel,  with  coolness. 
"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  observed,  at  first,  she  wears  a 
front." 

A  what  1  "  ejaculated  Tottle. 

*^  One  of  those  things  with  curls,  along  here,"  said  Par- 
sons, drawing  a  straight  line  across  his  forehead,  just  over 
his  eyes,  in  illustration  of  his  meaning.  I  know  the  front's 
black  ;  I  can't  speak  quite  positively  about  her  own  hair ;  be- 
cause, unless  one  walks  behind  her,  and  catches  a  glimpse  of 
it  under  her  bonnet,  one  seldom  sees  it  \  but  I  should  say 
that  it  was  rather  lighter  than  the  front — a  shade  of  a  grayish 
tinge,  perhaps." 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  looked  as  if  he  had  certain  misgivings 
of  mind.    Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  perceived  it,  and  thought  it 
would  be  safe  to  begin  the  next  attack  without  delay. 
Now,  were  you  ever  in  love,  Tottle  ? "  he  inquired. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  blushed  up  to  the  eyes,  and  down  to 
the  chin,  and  exhibited  a  most  extensive  combination  of  colors 
as  he  confessed  the  soft  impeachment. 


760 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ, 


"  I  suppose  you  popped  the  question,  more  than  once 
when  you  were  a  young — I  beg  your  pardon — a  younger- 
man,"  said  Parsons. 

"  Never  in  my  life  !  "  replied  his  friend,  apparently  indig-= 
nant  at  being  suspected  of  such  an  act.  Never !  The  fact 
is,  that  I  entertain,  as  you  know,  peculiar  opinions  on  these 
subjects.  I  am  not  afraid  of  ladies,  young  or  old — far  from 
it ;  but,  I  think,  that  in  compliance  with  the  custom  of  the 
present  day,  they  allow  too  much  freedom  of  speech  and  man- 
ner to  marriageable  men.  Now,  the  fact  is,  that  anything  like 
this  easy  freedom  I  never  could  acquire  ;  and  as  I  am  always 
afraid  of  going  too  far,  I  am  generally,  I  dare  say,  considered 
formal  and  cold." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  '\i  you  were,"  remarked  Parsons, 
gravely  ;  I  shouldn't  wonder.  However,  you'll  be  all  right  in 
this  case ;  for  the  strictness  and  delicacy  of  this  lady's  ideas 
greatly  exceed  your  own.  Lord  bless  you,  why  when  she 
came  to  our  house,  there  was  an  old  portrait  of  some  man  or 
other,  with  two  large  black  staring  eyes,  hanging  up  in  her 
bedroom  ;  she  positively  refused  to  gg  to  bed  there,  till  it  was 
taken  down,  considering  it  decidedly  wrong." 

"  I  think  so,  too,"  said  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  ;  "  certain- 
ly." \ 

"  And  then,  the  other  night — I  never  laughed  so  much  in 
my  life  " — resumed  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  ;  I  had  driven  home 
in  an  easterly  wind,  and  caught  a  devil  of  a  face-ache.  Well ; 
as  Fanny — that's  Mrs.  Parsons,  you  know — and  this  friend  of 
hers,  and  I,  and  Frank  Ross,  were  playing  a  rubber,  I  said, 
jokingly,  that  when  I  went  to  bed  I  should  wrap  my  head  in 
Fanny's  flannel  petticoat.  She  instantly  threw  up  her  cards,- 
and  left  the  room." 

"  Quite  right !  "  said  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  ;  "  she  could  not 
possibly  have  behaved  in  a  more  dignified  manner.  What  did 
you  do  ? " 

"Do.^ — Frank  took  dummy  ;  and  I  won  sixpence," 
"  But,  didn't  you  apologize  for  hurting  her  feelings  ?  " 
"  Devil  a  bit.  Next  morning  at  breakfast,  we  talked  it 
over.  She  contended  that  any  reference  to  a  flannel  petticoat 
was  improper ; — men  ought  not  to  be  supposed  to  know  that 
such  things  were.  I  pleaded  my  coverture  ;  being  a  married 
man." 

"  And  what  did  the  lady  say  to  that  1 "  inquired  Tottle, 
deeply  interested. 


MR.  WATKINS  TOTTLE., 


*'  Changed  her  ground,  and  said  that  Frank  being  a  single 
man,  its  impropriety  was  obvious." 

"  Noble-minded  creature  ! "  exclaimed  the  enraptured 
Tottle. 

"  Oh  !  both  Fanny  and  I  said,  at  once,  that  she  was  regu- 
larly cut  out  for  you." 

A  gleam  of  placid  satisfaction  shone  on  the  circular  face 
of  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  as  he  heard  the  prophecy. 

"  There's  one  thing  I  can't  understand,"  said  Mr.  Gabriel 
Jparsons,  as  he  rose  to  depart ;  "  I  cannot,  for  the  life  and 
Soul  of  me  imagine,  how  the  deuce  you'll  ever  contrive  to 
come  together.  The  lady  would  certainly  go  into  convulsions 
if  the  subject  w^ere  mentioned."  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  sat 
down  again,  and  laughed  until  he  was  weak.  Tottle  owed 
hihi  money,  so  he  had  a  perfect  right  to  laugh  at  Tottle's 
expense. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  feared,  in  his  own  mind,  that  this  was 
another  characteristic  which  he  had  in  common  with  this 
modern  Lucretia.  He,  however,  accepted  the  invitation  to 
dine  with  the  Parsonses  on  the  next  day  but  one,  with  great 
firmrtess  ;  and  looked  forward  to  the  introduction,  when  again 
left  alone,  with  tolerable  composure. 

The  sun  that  rose  on  the  next  day  but  one,  had  neyer  be- 
held a  sprucer  personage  on  the  outside  of  the  Norwood  stage, 
than  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle ;  and  when  the  coach  drew  up  be- 
fore a  card-board  looking  house  with  disguised  chimneys,  and 
a  lawn  like  a  large  sheet  of  green  letter-paper,  he  certainly 
had  never  lighted  to  his  place  of  destination  a  gentleman  who 
felt  more  uncomfortable. 

The  coach  stopped,  and  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  jumped — we 
beg  his  patdon — alighted,  with  great  dignity.  All  right !  " 
said  he,  and  away  went  the  coach  up  the  hill  with  that  beau- 
tiful equaniihity  of  pace  for  which  short  "  stages  are  gener- 
ally remarkable. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  gave  a  faltering  jerk  to  the  handle  of 
the  garden-gate  bell.  He  essayed  a  more  energetic  tug,  and 
his  previous  nervousness  was  not  at  all  diminished  by  hearing 
the  bell  ringing  like  a  fire  alarum. 

Is  Mr.  Parsons  at  home  ? "  inquired  Tottle  of  the  man 
who  opened  the  gate.  He  could  hardly  hear  himself  speak, 
for  the  bell  had  not  yet  done  tolling. 

Here  I  am,"  Shouted  a  voice  on  the  lawn,  and  there  was 
Mr.  Gabriel  ParsonI  in  a  flannel  jacket,  running  backwards 


762 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


and  forwards,  from  a  wicket  to  two  hats  piled  on  each  other, 
and  from  the  two  hats  to  the  wicket,  in  the  most  violent  man^ 
ner,  while  another  gentleman  with  his  coat  off  was  getting 
down  the  area  of  the  house,  after  a  bail.  When  the  gentle- 
man without  the  coat  had  found  it — which  he  did  in  less  than 
ten  minutes — he  ran  back  to  the  hats,  and  Gabriel  Parsons 
pulled  up.  Then,  the  gentleman  without  the  coat  called  out 
"  play,''  very  loudly,  and  bowled.  Then  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons 
knocked  the  ball  several  yards,  and  took  another  run.  Then, 
the  other  gentleman  aimed  at  the  wicket,  and  didn't  hit  it  \ 
and  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  having  finished  running  on  his  own 
account,  laid  down  the  bat  and  ran  after  the  ball,  which  went 
into  a  neighboring  field.    They  called  this  cricket. 

Tot  tie,  will  you 'go  in?'"  inquired  Mr.  Gabriel  Par- 
sons, as  he  approached  him,  wiping  the  perspiration  off  hia 
face. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  declined  the  offer,  the  bare  idea  of 
accepting  which  made  him  even  warmer  than  his  friend. 

"  Then  we'll  go  into  the  house,  as  it's  past  four,  and  I 
shall  have  to  wash  my  hands  before  dinner,"  said  Mr.  Ga- 
briel Parsons.  "  Here,  I  hate  ceremony,  you  know  !  Tnnson, 
that's  Tottle — Tottle,  that's  Timson  ;  bred  for  the  church, 
which  fear  will  never  be  bread  for  him  ;"  and  he  chuckled 
at  the  old  joke.  Mr.  Timson  bowed  carelessly.  Mr.  Wat- 
kins  Tottle  bowed  stiffly.  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  led  the  way 
to  the  house.  He  was  a  rich  sugar-baker,  -who  mistook  rude- 
ness for  honesty,  and  abrupt  bluntness  for  an  open  and  can- 
did manner ;  many  besides  Gabriel  mistake  bluntness  for  sin- 
cerity. 

Mrs.  Gabriel  Parsons  received  the  visitors  most  graciously 
on  the  steps,  and  preceded  them  to  the  drawing-room.  On 
the  sofa,  was  seated  a  lady  of  very  prim  appearance,  and  re- 
markably inanimate.  She  was  one  of  those  persons  at  whose 
age  it  is  impossible  to  make  any  reasonable  guess  \  her  fea- 
tures might  have  been  remarkably  pretty  when  she  was 
younger,  and  they  might  always  have  presented  the  same  ap- 
pearance. Her  complexion — with  a  slight  trace  of  powder 
here  and  there — was  as  clear  as  that  of  a  well-made  wax-doll, 
and  her  face  as  expressive.  She  was  handsomely  dressed, 
and  was  winding  up  a  gold  watch. 

Miss  Lillerton,  my  dear,  this  is  our  friend  Mr.  Watkins 
Tottle ;  a  very  old  acquaintance  I  assure  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Parsons,  presenting  the  Strephon  of  Cecil-street,  Strand 


MR,  WATKINS  TOTTLE. 


The  lady  rose,  and  made  a  deep  courtesy ;  Mr.  Watkin3  Tot 
tie  made  ii  bow. 

"  Splendid,  majestic  creature  ! thought  Tottle. 

Mr.  Timson  advanced,  and  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  began  to 
hate  him.  Men  generally  discover  a  rival  instinctively,  and 
Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  felt  that  his  hate  was  deserved. 

"  May  I  beg,"  said  the  reverend  gentleman, — "  May  I  beg, 
to  call  upon  you,  Miss  Lillerton,  for  some  trifling  donation  to 
my  soup,  coals,  and  blanket  distribution  society  ? " 

"  Put  my  name  down,  for  two  sovereigns,  if  you  please," 
responded  Miss  Lillerton. 

"  You  are  truly  charitable,  madam,  '  said  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Timson,  "  and  we  know  that  charity  will  cover  a  multi- 
tude of  sins.  Let  me  beg  you  to  understand  that  I  do  not  say 
this  from  the  supposition  that  you  have  many  sins  which  re- 
quire palliation ;  believe  me  when  I  say  that  I  never  yet  met 
any  one  who  had  fewer  to  atone  for,  than  Miss  Lillerton." 

Something  like  a  bad  imitation  of  animation  lighted  up 
the  lady's  face,  as  she  acknowledged  the  compliment.  Wat- 
kins Tottle  incurred  the  sin  of  wishing  that  the  ashes  of  the 
Reverend  Charles  Timson  were  quietly  deposited  in  the 
churchyard  of  his  curacy,  wherever  it  might  be. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,'^  interrupted  Parsons,  who  had  just 
appeared  with  clean  hands,  and  a  black  coat,  "  it's  my  private 
opinion,  Timson,  that  your  '  distribution  society '  is  rather  a 
humbug." 

"  You  are  so  severe,"  replied  Timson,  with  a  Christian 
smile ;  he  disliked  Parsons,  but  liked  his  dinners. 

"  So  positively  unjust !  "  said  Miss  Lillerton. 

"  Certainly,"  observed  Tottle.  The  lady  looked  up  ;  her 
eyes  met  those  of  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle.  She  withdrew  them 
in  a  sweet  confusion,  and  Watkins  Tottle  did  the  same — the 
confusion  was  mutual. 

"Why,"  urged  Mr.  Parsons,  pursuing  his  objections, 
"  what  on  earth  is  the  use  of  giving  a  man  coals  who  has 
nothing  to  cook,  or  giving  him  blankets  when  he  hasn't  a 
bed,  or  giving  him  soup  when  he  requires  substantial  food  t 
'  like  sending  them  ruffles  when  wanting  a  shirt.'  Why  not 
give  'em  a  trifle  of  money,  as  I  do,  when  I  think  they  deserve 
it,  and  let  them  purchase  what  they  think  best  ?  Why  ? — be- 
cause your  subscribers  wouldn't  see  their  names  flourishing  in 
print  on  the  church-door — that's  the  reason." 

Really,  Mr.  Parsons,  I  hope  you  don't  mean  to  insinuate 


764 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


that  I  wish  to  see  my  name  in  print,  on  the  church-door/'  in 
terrupted  Miss  Lillerton. 

"  1  hope  not,"  said  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  putting  in  an- 
other word,  and  getting  another  glance. 

"  Certainly  not,''  replied  Parsons.  "  I  dare  say  you 
wouldn't  mind  seeing  it  in  writing,  though,  in  the  church 
register — eh  ?  " 

"  Register !    What  register  ?  "  inquired  the  lady,  gravely. 

"  Why,  the  register  of  marriages,  to  be  sure,"  replied  Par- 
sons,  chuckling  at  the  sally,  and  glancing  at  Tottle.  Mr.  Wat- 
kins  Tottle  thought  he  should  have  fainted  for  shame,  and  it  is 
quite  impossible  to  imagine  what  effect  the  joke  would  have 
had  upon  the  lady,  if  dinner  had  not  been,  at  that  moment,  an- 
nounced. Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  with  an  unprecedented  effort 
of  gallantry,  offered  the  tip  of  his  little  finger ;  Miss  Lillerton 
accepted  it  gracefully,  with  maiden  modesty :  and  they  pro- 
ceeded in  due  state  to  the  dinner-table,  where  they  were  soon 
deposited  side  by  side.  The  room  was  very  snug,  the  dinner 
very  good,  and  the  little  party  in  spirits.  The  conversation 
became  pretty  general,  and  when  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  had  ex- 
tracted one  or  two  cold  observations  from  his  neighbor,  and 
had  taken  wine  with  her,  he  began  to  acquire  confidence  rap- 
idly. The  cloth  was  removed  ;  Mrs.  Gabriel  Parsons  drank 
four  glasses  of  port  on  the  plea  of  being  a  nurse  just  then ; 
and  Miss  Lillerton  took  about  the  same  number  of  sips,  on 
the  plea  of  not  wanting  any  at  all.  At  length,  the  ladies  re- 
tired, to  the  great  gratification  of  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  who 
had  been  coughing  and  frowning  at  his  wife,  for  half-an-hour 
previously — signals  which  Mrs.  Parsons  never  happened  to 
observe,  until  she  had  been  pressed  to  take  her  ordinary 
quanj:um,  which,  to  avoid  giving  trouble,  she  generally  did  at 
once. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  her  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Gabriel  Par- 
sons of  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  in  an  under  tone. 

"  I  dote  on  her  with  enthusiasm  already  !  "  replied  Mr, 
Watkins  Tottle. 

Gentlemen,  pray  let  us  drink  '  the  ladies,'  ''  said  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Timson. 

"  The  ladies  !  "  said  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  emptying  his 
glass.  In  the  fulness  of  his  confidence,  he  felt  as  if  he  could 
make  love  to  a  dozen  ladies,  off  hand. 

"  Ah !  "  said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  "  I  remember  when  I 
was  a  young  man — fill  your  glass,  Timson." 


MR,  W ATKINS  TOTTLE, 


*  I  have  this  moment  emptied  it.'- 
«  Then  fill  again/' 

"  I  will/'  said  Timson,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word. 

"I  remember,"  resumed  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  "when  I 
was  a  younger  man,  with  what  a  strange  compound  of  feelings 
I  used  to  drink  that  toast,  and  how  I  used  to  think  every 
woman  was  an  angel." 

Was  that  before  you  were  married  ?  "  mildly  inquired 
Mr.  Watkins  Tottle. 

"  Oh  !  certainly,"  replied  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  I  have 
never  thought  so  since  ;  and  a  precious  milksop  1  must  have 
been,  ever  to  have  thought  so  at  all.  But,  you  know,  I 
married  Fanny  under  the  oddest,  and  most  ridiculous  circum- 
stances possible." 

"What  were  they,  if  one  may  inquire.'*"  asked  Timson, 
who  had  heard  the  story,  on  an  average,  twice  a  week  for  the 
last  six  months.  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  listened  attentively  in 
the  hope  of  picking  up  some  suggestion  that  might  be  useful 
to  him  in  his  new  undertaking. 

"  1  spent  my  wedding-night  in  a  back-kitchen  chimney," 
said  Parsons,  by  way  of  a  beginning. 

In  a  back-kitchen  chimney  !  "  ejaculated  Watkins  Tottle. 
"  How  dreadful !  " 

Yes,  it  wasn't  very  pleasant,"  replied  the  small  host. 
The  fact  is,  Fanny's  father  and  mother  liked  me  well  enough 
as  an  individual,  but  had  a  decided  objection  to  my  becoming 
a  husband.  You  see,  I  hadn't  any  money  in  those  days,  and 
they  had  ^  and  so  they  wanted  Fanny  to  pick  up  somebody 
else.  However,  we  managed  to  discover  the  state  of  each 
other's  affections  somehow.  I  used  to  meet  her,  at  some 
mutual  friends'  parties  ;  at  first  we  danced  together,  and  talked 
and  flirted,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ;  then,  I  used  to  like 
nothing  so  well  as  sitting  by  her  side — we  didn't  talk  so  much 
then,  but  I  remember  I  used  to  have  a  great  notion  of  look- 
ing at  her  out  of  the  extreme  corner  of  my  left  eye — and  then 
1  got  very  miserable  and  sentimental,  and  began  to  write 
verses,  and  use  Mascassar  oil.  At  last  I  couldn't  bear  it  any 
longer,  and  after  I  had  walked  up  and  down  the  sunny  side 
of  Oxford-street  in  tight  boots  for  a  week — and  a  devilish  hot 
summer  it  was  too — in  the  hope  of  meeting  her,  I  sat  down 
and  wrote  a  letter,  and  begged  her  to  manage  to  see  me 
clandestinely,  for  I  wanted  to  hear  her  decision  from  her  own 
mouth.    I  said  I  had  discovered^  to  my  perfect  satisfaction, 


766 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


that  I  couldn't  live  without  her,  and  that  if  she  didn't  have 
me,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  take  prussic  acid,  or  take  to 
drinking,  or  emigrate,  so  as  to  take  myself  off  in  some  way 
or  other.  Well,  I  borrowed  a  pound,  and  bribed  the  house- 
maid to  give  her  the  note,  which  she  did." 

And  what  was  the  reply  ? "  inquired  Timson,  who  had 
found,  before,  that  to  encourage  the  repetition  of  old  stories 
is  to  get  a  general  invitation. 

"  Oh,  the  usual  one !  Fanny  expressed  herself  very 
miserable  :  hinted  at  the  possibility  of  an  early  grave ;  said 
that  nothing  should  induce  her  to  swerve  from  the  duty  she 
owed  her  parents ;  implored  me  to  forget  her,  and  find  out 
somebody  more  deserving,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  She 
said  she  could,  on  no  account,  think  of  meeting  me  unknown 
to  her  pa  and  ma  ;  and  entreated  me,  as  she  should  be  in  a 
particular  part  of  Kensington  Gardens  at  eleven  o'clock  next 
morning,  not  to  attempt  to  meet  her  there." 

You  didn't  go,  ot  course  ?  "  said  Watkins  Tottle. 

Didn't  I  ? — Of  course  I  did.  There  she  was,  with  the 
identical  housemaid  in  perspective,  in  order  that  there  might 
be  no  interruption.  We  walked  about,  for  a  couple  of' hours  ; 
jnade  ourselves  delightfully  miserable ;  and  were  regularly 
engaged.  Then,  we  began  to  '  correspond ' — that  is  to  say, 
we  used  to  exchange  about  four  letters  a  day ;  what  we  used 
to  say  in  'em  I  can't  imagine.  And  I  used  to  have  an  inter- 
view, in  the  kitchen,  or  the  cellar,  or  some  such  place,  every 
evening.  Well,  things  went  on  in  this  way  for  some  time ; 
and  we  got  fonder  of  each  other  every  day.  At  last,  as  our 
love  was  raised  to  such  a  pitch,  and  as  my  salary  had  been 
raised  too,  shortly  before,  we  determined  on  a  secret  marriage. 
Fanny  arranged  to  sleep  at  a  friend's,  on  the  previous  night ; 
we  were  to  be  married  early  in  the  morning  ;  and  then  we 
were  to  return  to  her  home  and  be  pathetic.  She  was  to  fall 
at  the  old  gentleman's  feet,  and  bathe  his  boots  with  her 
tears  ;  and  I  was  to  hug  the  old  lady  and  call  her  *  mother,'  and 
use  my  pocket  handkerchief  as  much  as  possible.  Married  we 
were,  the  next  morning;  two  girls — friends  of  Fanny's — acting 
as  bridesmaids ;  and  a  man,  who  was  hired  for  five  shillings 
and  a  pint  of  porter,  officiating  as  father.  Now,  the  old  lady 
unfortunately  put  off  her  return  from  Ramsgate,  where  she 
had  been  paying  a  visit,  until  the  next  morning;  and  as  we 
placed  great  reliance  on  her,  we  agreed  to  postpone  our  con- 
fession for  four-and-twenty  hours.     My  newly-made  wife  re* 


MR.  W ATKINS  TOTTLE, 


767 


turned  home,  and  I  spent  my  wedding-day  in  strolling  about 
Hampstead-heath,  and  execrating  my  father-in-law.  Of  course, 
I  went  to  comfort  my  dear  little  wife  at  night,  as  much  as  I 
could,  with  the  assurance  that  our  troubles  would  soon  be 
over.  I  opened  the  garden-gate,  of  which  I  had  a  key,  and 
was  shown  by  the  servant  to  our  old  place  of  meeting — a 
back  kitchen,  with  a  stone-floor  and  a  dresser ;  upon  which, 
in  the  absence  of  chairs,  we  used  to  sit  and  make  love.'' 

"  Make  love  upon  a  kitchen-dresser !  "  interrupted  Mr, 
Watkins  Tottle,  whose  ideas  of  decorum  vv^ere  greatly  outraged. 

"  Ah  !  On  a  kitchen-dresser  !  "  replied  Parsons,  "  And 
let  me  tell  you,  old  fellow,  that,  if  you  were  really  over  head- 
and-ears  in  love,  and  had  no  other  place  to  make  love  in, 
you'd  be  devilish  glad  to  avail  yourself  of  such  an  opportunity. 
However,  let  me  see  ; — where  was  I  ? 

"  On  the  dresser,''  suggested  Timson. 

"  Oh — ah  !  Well,  here  I  found  poor  Fanny,  quite  dis- 
consolate and  uncomfortable.  The  old  boy  had  been  very 
cross  all  day,  which  made  her  feel  still  more  lonely  ;  and  she 
was  quite  out  of  spirits.  So,  I  put  a  good  face  on  the  matter,  and 
laughed  it  olf,  and  said  we  should  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  a 
matrimonial  life  more  by  contrast ;  and,  at  length,  poor 
Fanny  brightened  up  a  little.  I  stopped  there,  till  about 
eleven  o'clock,  and,  just  as  I  was  taking  my  leave  for  the 
fourteenth  time,  the  girl  came  running  down  the  stairs,  with- 
out her  shoes,  in  a  great  fright,  to  tell  us  that  the  old  villain 
— Heaven  forgive  me  for  calling  him  so,  for  he  is  dead  and 
gone  now ! — prompted  1  suppose  by  the  prince  of  darkness, 
was  coming  down,  to  draw  his  own  beer  for  supper — a  thing 
he  had  not  done  before,  for  six  months,  to  my  certain  knowl- 
edge ;  for  the  cask  stood  in  that  very  back  kitchen.  If  he 
discovered  me  there,  explanation  would  have  been  out  of  the 
question  ]  for  he  was  so  outrageously  violent,  when  at  all  ex- 
cited, that  he  never  would  have  listened  to  me.  There  was 
only  one  thing  to  be  done.  The  chimney  was  a  very  wide 
one  ;  it  had  been  originally  built  for  an  oven  ;  went  up  per- 
pendicularly for  a  few  feet,  and  then  shot  backward  aud 
formed  a  sort  of  small  cavern.  My  hopes  and  fortune — the 
means  of  our  joint  existence  almost — were  at  stake.  I  scram- 
bled in  like  a  squirrel ;  coiled  myself  up  in  this  recess  ;  and, 
as  Fanny  and  the  girl  replaced  the  deal  chimney-board,  I 
could  see  the  light  of  the  candle  which  my  unconscious  father- 
in-law  carried  in  his  hand.    I  heard  him  draw  the  beer  ;  and 


768 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ, 


I  never  heard  beer  run  so  slowly.  He  was  just  leaving  the 
kitchen,  and  I  was  preparing  to  descend,  when  down  came 
the  infernal  chimney-board  with  a  tremendous  crash.  He 
stopped  and  put  down  the  candle  and  the  jug  of  beer  on  the 
dresser;  he  was  a  nervous  old  fellow,  and  any  unexpected  noise 
annoyed  him.  He  coolly  observed  that  the  fireplace  was 
never  used,  and  sending  the  frightened  servant  into  the  next 
kitchen  for  a  hammer  and  nails,  actually  nailed  up  the  board, 
and  locked  the  door  on  the  outside.  So,  there  was  I,  on  my 
wedding-night,  in  the  light  kerseymere  trousers,  fancy  waist- 
coat, and  blue  coat,  that  I  had  been  married  in  in  the  morn- 
ing, in  a  back-kitchen  chimney,  the  bottom  of  which  was  nailed 
up,  and  the  top  of  which  had  been  formerly  raised  some 
fifteen  feet,  to  prevent  the  smoke  from  annoying  the  neigh- 
bors. And  there,"  added  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  as  he  passed 
the  bottle,  there  I  remained  till  half-past  seven  the  next 
morning,  when  the  housemaid's  sweetheart,  who  was  a  car- 
penter, unshelled  me.  The  old  dog  had  nailed  me  up  so 
securely,  that,  to  this  very  hour,  I  firmly  believe  that  no  one 
but  a  carpenter  could  ever  have  got  me  out." 

"  And  what  did  Mrs.  Parsons's  father  say,  when  he  found 
you  were  married  "  inquired  Watkms  Tottle,  who,  although 
he  never  saw  a  joke,  was  not  satisfied  until  he  heard  a  story  to 
the  very  end. 

"  Why,  the  affair  of  the  chimney  so  tickled  his  fancy,  that 
he  pardoned  us  off-hand,  and  allowed  us  something  to  live  on 
till  he  went  the  way  of  all  flesh.  I  spent  the  next  night  in 
his  second-floor  front,  much  more  comfortable  than  I  had 
spent  the  preceding  one  ;  for,  as  you  will  probably  guess  " 

"  Please,  sir,  missis  has  made  tea,"  said  a  middle-aged 
female  servant,  bobbing  into  the  room. 

"That's  the  very  housemaid  that  figures  in  my  story," 
said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons.  "  She  went  into  Fanny's  service 
when  we  were  first  married,  and  has  been  with  us  ever  since  ] 
but  I  don't  think  she  has  felt  one  atom  of  respect  tor  me 
since  the  morning  she  saw  me  released,  when  she  went  into 
violent  hysterics,  to  which  she  has  been  subject  ever  since. 
Now,  shall  we  join  the  ladies  ? " 

"  If  you  please,"  said  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle. 
By  all  means,"  added  the  obsequious  Mr.  Timson  ;  and 
the  trio  made  for  the  drawing-room  accordingly. 

Tea  being  concluded,  and  the  toast  and  cups  having  been 
duly  handed,  and  occasionally  upset,  by  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  a 


MR.  W ATKINS  TOT  TLB. 


769 


rubber  was  proposed.  They  cut  for  partners — Mr,  and  Mrs. 
Parsons  ;  and  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  and  Miss  Lillerton.  Mr. 
Timson  having  conscientious  scruples  on  the  subject  of  card- 
playing,  drank  brandy-and-water,  and  kept  up  a  running  spar 
with  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle.  The  evening  went  off  well  ;  Mr. 
Watkins  Tottle  was  in  high  spirits,  having  some  reason  to  be 
gratified  with  his  reception  by  Miss  Lillerton  ;  and  before  he 
left,  a  small  party  was  made  up  to  visit  the  Beulah  Spa  on  the 
following  Saturday. 

"  It's  all  right,  I  think,''  said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  to  Mr. 
Watkins  Tottle  as  he  opened  the  garden  gate  for  him. 
I  hope  so,"  he  replied,  squeezing  his  friend's  hand. 

"  You'll  be  down  by  the  first  coach  on  Saturday,"  said 
Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle.  "  Undoubtedly." 

But  fortune  had  decreed  that  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  should 
not  be  down  by  the  first  coach  on  Saturday.  His  adventures 
on  that  day,  however,  and  the  success  of  his  wooing,  are  sub- 
jects for  another  chapter. 

CHAPTER  THE  SECOND. 

"  The  first  coach  has  not  come  in  yet,  has  it,  Tom  >  "  in- 
quired Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  as  he  very  complacently  paced 
up  and  down  the  fourteen  feet  of  gravel  which  bordered  the 
"lawn,"  on  the  Saturday  morning  which  had  been  fixed  upon 
for  the  Beulah  Spa  jaunt. 

No,  sir;  I  haven't  seen  it,"  replied  a  gardener  in  a  blue 
apron,  who  let  himself  out  to  do  the  ornamental  for  half-a- 
crown  a  day  and  his  "keep." 

"  Time  Tottle  was  down,"  said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  ru- 
minating— ^'  Oh,  here  he  is,  no  doubt,"  added  Gabriel,  as  a 
cab  drove  rapidly  up  the  hill  ;  and  he  buttoned  his  dressing- 
gown,  and  opened  the  gate  to  receive  the  expected  visitor. 
The  cab  stopped,  and  out  jumped  a  man  in  a  coarse  Petersham 
great-coat,  whity-brown  neckerchief,  faded  black  suit,  gam- 
boge-colored top-boots,  and  one  of  those  large-crowned  hats, 
formerly  seldom  met  with,  but  now  very  generally  patronized 
by  gentlemen  and  costermongers. 

"  Mr.  Persons  "  said  the  man,  looking  at  the  superscript 
tion  of  a  note  he  held  in  his  hand,  and  addressing  GabrieJ 
with  an  inquiring  air. 

"  J/y  name  is  Parsons,"  responded  the  sugar-baker. 


770 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


"  Tve  brought  this  here  note,"  replied  the  individual  in 
the  painted  tops,  in  a  hoarse  whisper:  "Tve  brought  this 
here  note  from  a  gen'lm'n  as  come  to  our  house  this  mornin'.'* 
I  expected  the  gentleman  at  my  house/^  said  Parsons, 
as  he  broke  the  seal,  which  bore  the  impression  of  her  Ma- 
jesty's  profile  as  it  is  seen  on  a  sixpence. 

"  I've  no  doubt  the  gen'lm'n  would  ha'  been  here,''  re- 
plied the  stranger,  "  if  he  hadn't  happened  to  call  at  our 
house  first ;  but  we  never  trusts  no  gen'lm'n  furder  nor  we 
can  see  him — no  mistake  about  that  there" — added  the  un- 
known, with  a  facetious  grin  ;  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  no  of- 
fence meant,  only — once  in,  and  I  wish  you  may — catch  the 
idea,  sir  ?  " 

Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  was  not  remarkable  for  catching  any- 
thing suddenly,  but  a  cold.  He  therefore  only  bestowed  a 
glance  of  profound  astonishment  on  his  mysterious  companion 
and  proceeded  to  unfold  the  note  of  which  he  had  been  the 
bearer.  Once  opened  and  the  idea  was  caught  with  very  lit- 
tle difficulty.  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  had  been  suddenly  arrested 
for  33/.  los.  4^/.,  and  dated  his  communication  from  a  lock-up 
house  in  the  vicinity  of  Chancery-lane. 

"  Unfortunate  affair  this  ! "  said  Parsons,  refolding  the 
note 

"Oh  !  nothin'  ven  you're  used  to  it,"  coolly  observed. thv** 
man  in  the  Petersham. 

"  Tom  !  "  exclaimed  Parsons,  after  a  few  minutes'  consid- 
eration, just  put  the  horse  in,  will  you  ? — Tell  the  gentle 
man  that  I  shall  be  there  almost  as  soon  as  you  are,"  he  con- 
tinued, addressing  the  sheriff-officer's  Mercury, 

"  Werry  well,"  replied  that  important  functionary  ;  adding 
in  a  confidential  manner,  "  I'd  adwise  the  gen'lm'n's  friends  to 
settle.  You  see  it's  a  mere  trifle  ;  and  unless  the  gen'lm'n 
means  to  go  up  afore  the  court,  it's  hardly  worth  while  waiting 
for  detainers  you  know.  Our  governor's  wide  awake,  he  is. 
I'll  never  say  nothin'  agin  him,  nor  no  man  ;  but  he  knows 
what 's  o'clock,  he  does,  uncommon."  Having  delivered  this 
eloquent,  and,  to  Parsons,  particularly  intelligible  harangue, 
the  meaning  of  which  was  eked  out  by  divers  nods  and  wdnks, 
the  gentleman  in  the  boots  reseated  himself  in  the  cab,  which 
went  rapidly  off,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight.  Mr.  Gabriel 
Parsons  continued  to  pace  up  and  down  the  pathway  for  some 
minutes,  apparently  absorbed  in  deep  meditation.  The  result 
of  his  cogitations  seemed  to  be  perfectly  satisfactory  to  him- 


MR.  WATKINS  TOTTLE. 


771 


self,  for  he  ran  briskly  into  the  house  \  said  that  business  had 
suddenly  summoned  him  to  town  ;  that  he  had  desired  the 
messenger  to  inform  Mr.  Watkins  Tottleof  the  fact ;  and  that 
they  would  return  together  to  dinner.  He  then  hastily 
equipped  himself  for  a  drive,  and  mounting  his  gig,  was  soon 
on  his  way  to  the  establishment  of  Mr.  Solomon  Jacobs, 
situate  (as  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  had  informed  him)  in  Cursitor- 
street,  Chancery-lane. 

When  a  man  is  in  a  violent  hurry  to  get  on,  and  has  a 
specific  object  in  view,  the  attainment  of  which  depends  on 
the  completion  of  his  journey,  the  difficulties  which  interpose 
themselves  in  his  way  appear  not  only  to  be  innumerable,  but 
to  have  been  called  into  existence  especially  for  the  occasion. 
The  remark  is  by  no  means  a  new  one,  and  Mr.  Gabriel 
Parsons  had  practical  and  painful  experience  of  its  justice  in 
the  course  of  his  drive.  There  are  three  classes  of  animated 
objects  which  prevent  your  driving  with  any  degree  of  com- 
fort or  celerity  through  streets  which  are  but  little  frequented 
— they  are  pigs,  children,  and  old  women.  On  the  occasion 
we  are  describing,  the  pigs  were  luxuriating  on  cabbage-stalks, 
and  the  shuttlecocks  fluttered  from  the  little  deal  battledores, 
and  the  children  played  in  the  road  ;  and  women,  with  a 
basket  in  one  hand,  and  the  street-door  key  in  the  other,  would 
cross  just  before  the  horse's  head,  until  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons 
was  perfectly  savage  with  vexation,  and  quite  hoarse  with 
hoi-ing  and  imprecating.  Then,  when  he  got  into  Fleet-street 
there  was  a  stoppage,"  in  which  people  in  vehicles  have  the 
satisfaction  of  •remaining  stationary  for  half  an  hour,  and 
envying  the  slowest  pedestrians  ;  and  where  policemen  rush 
about,  and  seize  hold  of  horses'  bridles,  and  back  them  into 
shop-windows,  by  way  of  clearing  the  road  and  preventing 
confusion.  At  length  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  turned  into  Chan- 
cery-lane, and  having  inquired  for,  and  been  directed  to 
Cursitor-street  (for  it  was  a  locality  of  which  he  was  quite 
ignorant),  he  soon  found  himself  opposite  the  house  of  Mr. 
Solomon  Jacobs.  Confiding  his  horse  and  gig  to  the  care  of 
one  of  the  fourteen  boys  who  had  followed  him  from  the 
other  side  of  Blackfriars-bridge  on  the  chance  of  his  requiring 
their  services,  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  crossed  the  road  and 
knocked  at  an  inner  door,  the  upper  part  of  which  was  of 
glass,  grated  like  the  windows  of  this  inviting  mansion  with 
iron  bars — painted  white  to  look  comfortable. 

The  knock  was  answered  by  a  sallow-faced  red-haired 


/72 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


sulky  boy,  who,  after  surveying  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  through 
the  glass,  applied  a  large  key  to  an  immense  wooden  excres- 
cence,  which  was  in  reality  a  lock,  but  which,  taken  in  con- 
junction with  the  iron  nails  with  which  the  panels  were  stud* 
ded,  gave  the  door  the  appearance  of  being  subject  to  warts. 
"  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,"  said  Parsons. 
It's  the  gentleman  that  come  in  this  morning,  Jem," 
screamed  a  voice  from  the  top  of  the  kitchen-stairs,  which 
belonged  to  a  dirty  woman  who  had  just  brought  her  chin  to 
a  level  with  the  passage-floor.  "The  gentleman's  in  the 
coffee-room." 

"  Up  stairs,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  just  opening  the  door  wide 
enough  to  let  Parsons  in  without  squeezing  him,  and  double- 
locking  it  the  moment  he  had  made  his  way  through  the 
aperture — "  First  floor — door  on  the  left." 

Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  thus  instructed,  ascended  the  un- 
carpeted  and  ill-lighted  staircase,  and  after  giving  several 
subdued  taps  at  the  before-mentioned  "  door  on  the  left," 
which  were  rendered  inaudible  by  the  hum  of  voices  within 
the  room,  and  the  hissing  noise  attendant  on  some  frying 
operations  which  were  carrying  on  below  stairs,  turned  the 
handle,  and  entered  the  apartment.  Being  informed  that  the 
unfortunate  object  of  his  visit  had  just  gone  up  stairs  to  write 
a  letter,  he  had  leisure  to  sit  down  and  observe  the  scene 
before  him. 

The  room — which  was  a  small,  confined  den — was  parti- 
tioned off  into  boxes,  like  the  common-room  of  some  inferior 
eating-house.  The  dirty  floor  had  evidently  been  as  long  a 
stranger  to  the  scrubbing-brush  as  to  carpet  or  floor-cloth  : 
and  the  ceiling  was  completely  blackened  by  the  flare  of  the 
oil-lamp  by  which  the  room  was  lighted  at  night.  The  gray 
ashes  on  the  edges  of  the  tables,  and  the  cigar  ends  which 
were  plentifully  scattered  about  the  dusty  grate,  fully  account- 
ed for  the  intolerable  smell  of  tobacco  which  pervaded  the 
place  ;  and  the  empty  glasses  and  half-saturated  slices  of 
lemon  on  the  tables,  together  with  the  porter  pots  beneath 
them,  bore  testimony  to  the  frequent  libations  in  which  the 
individuals  who  honored  Mr.  Solomon  Jacobs  by  a  temporary 
residence  in  his  house  indulged.  Over  the  mantel-shelf  was  a 
paltry  looking-glass,  extending  about  half  the  width  of  the 
chimney-piece  ;  but  by  way  of  counterpoise,  the  ashes  were 
confined  by  a  rusty  fender  about  twice  as  long  as  the  hearth. 

From  this  cheerful  room  itself,  the  attention  of  Mr.  GabrieJ 


MR.  IV AT  KINS  TOTTLE. 


773 


Parsons  was  naturally  directed  to  its  inmates.  In  one  of  the 
boxes  two  men  were  playing  at  cribbage  with  a  very  dirty 
pack  of  cards,  some  with  blue,  some  with  green,  and  some 
with  red  backs — selections  from  decayed  packs.  The  cribbage 
board  had  been  long  ago  formed  on  the  table  by  some  inge- 
nious visitor  with  the  assistance  of  a  pocket-knife  and  a  two- 
pronged  fork,  with  which  the  necessary  number  of  holes  had 
been  made  in  the  table  at  proper  distances  for  the  reception 
of  the  wooden  pegs.  In  another  box  a  stout,  hearty-looking 
man,  of  about  forty,  was  eating  some  dinner  which  his  wife — ■ 
an  equally  comfortable-looking  personage — had  brought  him 
in  a  basket  :  and  in  a  third,  a  genteel-looking  young  man  was 
talking  earnestly,  and  in  a  low  tone,  to  a  young  female,  whose 
face  was  concealed  by  a  thick  veil,  but  whom  Mr.  Gabriel 
Parsons  immediately  set  down  in  his  own  mind  as  the  debtor's 
wife.  A  young  fellow  of  vulgar  manners,  dressed  in  the  very 
extreme  of  the  prevailing  fashion,  was  pacing  up  and  down 
the  room,  with  a  lighted  cigar  in  his  mouth  and  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  ever  and  anon  puffing  forth  volumes  of  smoke, 
and  occasionally  applying,  with  much  apparent  relish,  to  a 
pint  pot,  the  contents  of  which  were  ''chilling"  on  the  "hob. 

"  Fourpence  more,  by  gum  !  "  exclaimed  one  of  the  crib- 
bage-players,  lighting  a  pipe,  and  addressing  his  adversary  at 
the  close  of  the  game  ;  "  one  'ud  think  you'd  got  luck  in  a 
pepper-cruet,  and  shook  it  out  when  you  wanted  it." 

''  Well,  that  a'n't  a  bad  un,'^  replied  the  other,  who  was  a 
horse-dealer  from  Islington. 

''No  ;  I'm  blessed  if  it  is,"  mterposed  the  jolly-looking 
fellow,  who,  having  finished  his  dinner,  was  drinking  out  of 
the  same  glass  as  his  wife,  in  truly  conjugal  harmony,  some 
hot  gin-and-water.  The  faithful  partner  of  his  cares  had 
brought  a  plentiful  supply  of  the  anti-temperance  fluid  in  a 
large  flat  stone  bottle,  which  looked  like  a  half-gallon  jar  that 
had  been  successfully  tapped  for  the  dropsy.  "  You're  a  rum 
chap,  you  are,  Mr.  Walker — will  you  dip  your  beak  into  this, 
sir  ?  " 

'•  Thank'ee,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Walker,  leaving  his  box,  and 
advancing  to  the  other  to  accept  the  proffered  glass.  "  Here's 
your  health,  sir,  and  your  good  'ooman's  here.  Gentlemen  all 
— yours,  and  better  luck  still.  Well,  Mr.  Willis,"  continued 
the  facetious  prisoner,  addressing  the  young  man  with  the 
cigar,  you  seem  rather  down  to-day — floored,  as  one  may  say. 
What's  the  matter,  sir  ?    Never  say  die,  you  know." 


774 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


''0\i\  Vm  all  right,"  replied  the  smoker.  "I  shall  be 
bailed  out  to-morrow." 

"  Shall  you,  though  ? "  inquired  the  other.  "  Damme,  I 
wish  I  could  say  the  same.  I  am  as  regularly  over  head  and 
ears  as  the  Royal  George,  and  stand  about  as  much  chance 
of  being  bailed  out.    Ha  !  ha  !  ha  1 " 

*'Why,"  said  the  young  man,  stopping  short,  and  speak- 
ing in  a  very  loud  key,  *Mook  at  me.  What  d'ye  think  I've 
stopped  here  two  days  for " 

'Cause  you  couldn't  get  out,  I  suppose,"  interrupted  Mr. 
Walker,  winking  to  the  company.  "  Not  that  you're  exactly 
obliged  to  stop  here,  only  you  can't  help  it.  No  compulsion, 
you  know,  only  you  must — eh  " 

"  A'n't  he  a  rum  un  t  "  inquired  the  delighted  individual, 
who  had  offered  the  gin-and-water,  of  his  wife. 

"  Oh,  he  just  is  !  "  replied  the  lady,  who  was  quite  over- 
come by  these  flashes  of  imagination. 

Why,  my  case,"  frowned  the  victim,  throwing  the  end  of 
his  cigar  into  the  fire,  and  illustrating  his  argument  by  knock- 
ing the  bottom  of  the  pot  on  the  table,  at  intervals, — "  my 
case  is  a  very  singular  one.  My  father's  a  man  of  large 
property,  and  I  am  his  son." 

"  That's  a  very  strange  circumstance  !  "  interrupted  the 
jocose  Mr.  Walker,  e7t  passant. 

— I  am  his  son,  and  have  received  a  liberal  education. 
I  don't  owe  no  man  nothing — not  the  value  of  a  farthing,  but 
I  was  induced,  you  see,  to  put  my  name  to  some  bills  for  a 
friend — bills  to  a  large  amount,  I  may  say  a  very  large 
amount,  for  which  I  didn't  receive  no  consideration.  What's 
the  consequence  }  " 

"  Why,  I  suppose  the  bills  went  out,  and  you  came  in. 
The  acceptances  weren't  taken  up,  and  you  were,  eh  ? "  in- 
quired Walker. 

"  To  be  sure,"  replied  the  liberally  educated  young  gen- 
tleman. "  To  be  sure ;  and  so  here  I  am,  locked  up  for  a 
matter  of  twelve  hundred  pound." 

"Why  don't  you  ask  your  old  governor  to  stump  up  1 "  in- 
quired Walker,  with  a  somewhat  skeptical  air. 

"  Oh !  bless  you,  he'd  never  do  it,"  replied  the  other,  in  a 
tone  of  expostulation — "  Never !  " 

"Well,  it  is  very  odd  to — be — sure,"  interposed  the  ownet 
of  the  flat  bottle,  mixing  another  glass,  "but  I've  been  in  dif- 
ficulties, as  one  may  say,  now  for  thirty  year.    I  went  to 


MR.  W ATKINS  TOTTLE. 


775 


pieces  when  I  was  in  a  milk-walk,  thirty  year  ago  ;  afterwards, 
when  I  was  a  fruiterer,  and  kept  a  spring  wan ;  and  arter  that 
again  in  the  coal  and  'tatur  line — but  all  that  time  I  never 
see  a  youngish  chap  come  into  a  place  of  this  kind,  who 
wasn't  going  out  again  directly,  and  who  hadn't  been  arrested 
on  bills  which  he'd  given  a  friend  and  for  which  he'd  received 
nothing  whatsomever — not  a  fraction." 

"  Oh  !  it's  always  the  cry,"  said  Walker.  "  I  can't  see  the 
use  on  it ;  that's  what  makes  me  so  wild.  Why,  I  should 
have  a  much  better  opinion  of  an  individual,  if  he'd  say  at 
once  in  an  honorable  and  gentlemanly  manner  as  he'd  done 
everybody  he  possible  could." 

"  Ay,  to  be  sure,"  interposed  the  horse-dealer,  with  whose 
notions  of  bargain  and  sale  the  axiom  perfectly  coincided, 
"  so  should  I." 

The  young  gentleman,  who  had  given  rise  to  these  observa- 
tions, was  on  the  point  of  offering  a  rather  angry  reply  to 
these  sneers,  but  the  rising  of  the  young  man  before  noticed, 
and  of  the  female  who  had  been  sitting  by  him,  to  leave  the 
room,  interrupted  the  conversation.  She  had  been  weeping 
bitterly,  and  the  noxious  atmosphere  of  the  room  acting  upon 
her  excited  feelings  and  delicate  frame,  rendered  the  support 
of  her  companion  necessary  as  they  quitted  it  together. 

There  was  an  air  of  superiority  about  them  both,  and 
something  in  their  appearance  so  unusual  in  such  a  place, 
that  a  respectful  silence  was  observed  until  the  whirr — r — > 
bang  of  the  spring  door  announced  that  they  were  out  of 
hearing.    It  was  broken  by  the  wife  of  the  ex-fruiterer. 

"  Poor  creetur  !  "  said  she,  quenching  a  sigh  in  a  rivulet  of 
gin-and-water.    "  She's  very  young." 

She's  a  nice-looking  'ooman  too,"  added  the  horse- 
dealer. 

"  What's  he  in  for,  Ikey  t "  inquired  Walker,  of  an  indi- 
vidual who  was  spreading  a  cloth  with  numerous  blotches  of 
mustard  upon  it,  on  one  of  the  tables,  and  whom  Mr.  Gabriel 
Parsons  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  as  the  man  who  had 
called  upon  him  in  the  morning. 

"  Vy,"  responded  the  factotum,  it's  one  of  the  rummiest 
rigs  you  ever  heard  on.  He  come  in  here  last  Vensday, 
which  by  the  bye  he's  going  over  the  water  to-night — howso- 
ever that's  neither  here  nor  there.  You  see  I've  been  a  going 
back'ards  and  for'ards  about  his  business,  and  ha'  managed 
to  pick  up  some  of  his  story  from  the  servants  and  them  ;  and 


776 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


SO  far  as  I  can  make  it  out,  it  seems  to  be  summat  to  this 
here  effect  " 

Cut  it  short,  old  fellow,"  interrupted  Walker,  who  knew 
from  former  experience  that  he  of  the  top-boots  was  neither 
very  concise  nor  intelligible  in  his  narratives. 

Let  me  alone,"  replied  Ikey,  ^*and  I'll  ha' vound  up, 
and  made  my  lucky  in  five  seconds.  This  here  young  gen'^ 
Im'n's  father — so  I'm  told,  mind  ye — and  the  father  o'  the 
young  voman,  have  always  been  on  very  bad,  out-and-out, 
rig'lar  knock-me-down  sort  o'  terms  ;  but  somehow  or  another, 
when  he  was  a  wisitin'  at  some  gentlefolk's  house,  as  he 
knowed  at  college,  he  came  into  contract  with  the  young  lady. 
He  seed  her  several  times,  and  then  he  up  and  said  he'd 
keep  company  with  her,  if  so  be  as  she  vos  agreeable.  Veil, 
she  vos  as  sweet  upon  him  as  he  vos  upon  her,  and  so  I 
s'pose  they  made  it  all  right ;  for  they  got  married  'bout  six 
months  arterwards,  unbeknown,  mind  ye,  to  the  two  fathers— 
leastways  so  I'm  told.  When  they  heard  on  it — my  eyes, 
there  was  such  a  combustion  !  Starvation  vos  the  very  least 
that  vos  to  be  done  to  'em.  The  young  gen'lm'n's  father  cut 
him  off  vith  a  bob,  'cos  he'd  cut  himself  off  vith  a  wife  ;  and 
the  young  lady's  father  he  behaved  even  worser  and  more  un- 
nat'ral,  for  he  not  only  blow'd  her  up  dreadful,  and  swore 
he'd  never  see  her  again,  but  he  employed  a  chap  as  I  knows 
— and  as  you  knows,  Mr.  Valker,  a  precious  sight  too  well — 
to  go  about  and  buy  up  the  bills  and  them  things  on  which 
the  young  husband,  thinking  his  governor  'ud  come  round . 
agin,  had  raised  the  vind  just  to  blow  himself  on  vith  for  a 
time  ;  besides  vich,  he  made  all  the  interest  he  could  to  set 
other  people  agin  him.  Consequence  vos,  that  he  paid  as 
long  as  he  could  ;  but  things  he  never  expected  to  have  to 
meet  till  he'd  had  time  to  turn  himself  round  come  fast  upon 
him,  and  he  vos  nablDcd.  He  vos  brought  here,  as  I  said 
afore,  last  Vensday,  and  I  think  there's  about — ah,  half-a- 
dozen  detainers  agin  him  down  stairs  now.  I  have  been," 
added  Ikey,  in  the  purfession  these  fifteen  year,  and  I  never 
met  vith  such  windictiveness  afore  !  " 

"  Poor  creeturs  !  "  exclaimed  the  coal-dealer's  wife  once 
more  :  again  resorting  to  the  same  excellent  prescription  for 
nipping  a  sigh  in  the  bud  :  Ah  !  when  they've  seen  as  much 
trouble  as  I  and  my  old  man  here  have,  they'll  be  as  comfort- 
able under  it  as  we  are." 

The  young  lady's  a  pretty  creature,"  said  Walker,  "  only 


MR.  W ATKINS  TOTTLE. 


777 


5he's  a  little  too  delicate  for  my  taste — there  ain't  enough  of 
her.  As  to  the  young  cove,  he  may  be  very  respectable  and 
what  not,  but  he's  too  down  in  the  mouth  for  me — he  ain't 
game." 

"  Game  ! "  exclaimed  Ikey,  who  had  been  altering  the 
position  of  a  green-handled  knife  and  fork  at  least  a  dozen 
times,  in  order  that  he  might  remain  in  the  room  under  the 
pretext  of  having  something  to  do.  He's  game  enough  ven 
there's  anything  to  be  fierce  about ;  but  who  could  be  game  as 
you  call  it,  Mr.  Walker,  with  a  pale  young  creetur  like  that, 
hanging  about  him  ? — It's  enough  to  drive  any  man's  heart  into 
his  boots  to  see  'em  together — and  no  mistake  at  all  about  it. 
I  never  shall  forget  her  first  comin'  here  \  he  wrote  to  her  on 
the  Thursday  to  come — I  know  he  did,  'cos  I  took  the  letter. 
Uncommon  fidgety  he  was  all  day  to  be  sure,  and  in  the  even- 
ing he  goes  down  into  the  office,  and  he  says  to  Jacobs,  says 
he,  '  Sir,  can  I  have  the  loan  of  a  private  room  for  a  few  min- 
utes this  evening,  without  incurring  any  additional  expense — 
just  to  see  my  wife  in  ? '  says  he.  Jacobs  looked  as  much  as 
to  say — *  Strike  me  bountiful  if  you  ain't  one  of  the  modest 
sort ! '  but  as  the  gen'lm'n  who  had  been  in  the  back  parlor 
had  just  gone  out,  and  had  paid  for  it  for  that  day,  he  says — 
werry  grave — '  Sir,'  says  he,  'it's  agin  our  rules  to  let  private 
rooms  to  our  lodgers  on  gratis  terms,  but,' says  he,  'for  a 
gentleman,  I  don't  mind  breaking  through  them  for  once.' 
So  then  he  turns  round  to  me,  and  says,  '  Ikey,  put  two 
mould  candles  in  the  back  parlor,  and  charge  'em  to  this 
gen'lm'n's  account,  vich  I  did.  Veil,  by  and  by  a  hackney- 
coach  comes  up  to  the  door,  and  there,  sure  enough,  was 
the  young  lady,  wrapped  up  in  a  hopera-cloak,  as  it  might 
be,  and  all  alone.  I  opened  the  gate  that  night,  so  I  went  up 
when  the  coach  come,  and  he  vos  a  waitin'  at  the  parlor-door 
— and  wasn't  he  a  trembling,  neither  ?  The  poor  creetur  see 
him,  and  could  hardly  walk  to  meet  him.  '  Oh,  Harry  ! '  she 
says,  *  that  it  should  have  come  to  this  ;  and  all  for  my  sake,' 
says  she,  putting  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  So  he  puts 
his  arm  round  her  pretty  little  waist,  and  leading  her  gently  a 
little  way  into  the  room,  so  that  he  might  be  able  to  shut  the 
door,  he  says,  so  kind  and  soft-like — 'Why,  Kate,'  say  he  '^ 

"  Here's  the  gentleman  you  want,"  said  Ikey,  abruptly 
breaking  off  in  his  story,  and  introducing  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons 
to  the  crest-fallen  Watkins  Tottle,  who  at  that  moment  entered 
the  room.    Watkins  advanced  with  a  wooden  expression  of 


778 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ. 


passive  endurance,  and  accepted  the  hand  which  Mr.  Gabriel 
Parsons  held  out. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  said  Gabriel,  with  a  look 
strongly  expressive  of  his  dislike  of  the  company. 

"This  way,"  replied  the  imprisoned  one,  leading  the  way 
to  the  front  drawing-room,  where  rich  debtors  did  the  luxuri- 
ous at  the  rate  of  a  couple  of  guineas  a  day. 

"  Well,  here  I  am,"  said  Mr.  Watkins,  as  he  sat  down  on 
the  sofa ;  and  placing  the  palms  of  his  hands  on  his  knees, 
anxiously  glanced  at  his  friend's  countenance. 

*^  Yes  ;  and  here  you're  likely  to  be,"  said  Gabriel,  coolly, 
as  he  rattled  the  money  in  his  unmentionable  pockets,  and 
looked  out  of  the  window. 

"  What's  the  amount  with  the  costs } "  inquired  Parsons, 
after  an  awkward  pause. 

"37/.  3^.  10./." 

"  Have  you  any  money  ?  " 

"  Nine  and  sixpence  halfpenny." 

Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  walked  up  and  down  the  room  for  a 
few  seconds,  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind  to  disclose  the 
plan  he  had  formed  ;  he  was  accustomed  to  drive  hard  bar- 
gains, but  was  always  most  anxious  to  conceal  his  avarice. 
At  length  he  stopped  short,  and  said, — "  Tottle,  you  owe  me 
fifty  pounds." 

"  I  do." 

"  And  from  all  I  see,  I  infer  that  you  are  likely  to  owe  it 
to  me." 

"  I  fear  I  am." 
Though  you  have  every  disposition  to  pay  me  if  you 
could  > " 

Certainly." 

^-  Then,"  said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  "  listen  :  here's  my 
proposition.  You  know  my  way  of  old.  Accept  it — yes  or 
no — I  will  or  1  wont.  I'll  pay  the  debt  and  costs,  and  I'll 
lend  you  10/.  more  (which,  added  to  your  annuity,  will  enable 
you  to  carry  on  the  war  well)  if  you'll  give  me  your  note  of 
hand  to  pay  me  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  within  six 
months  after  you  are  married  to  Miss  Lillerton." 

"  My  dear  " 

Stop  a  minute — on  one  condition  ;  and  that  is,  that  you 
propose  to  Miss  Lillerton  at  once." 

*^  At  once  !    My  dear  Parsons,  consider." 

•'It's  for  you  to  consider,  not  me.    She  knows  you  well 


MR.  W ATKINS  TOTTLE. 


from  reputation,  though  she  did  not  know  you  personally  until 
lately.  Notwithstanding  all  her  maiden  modesty,  I  think 
she'd  be  deviHsh  glad  to  get  married  out  of  hand  with  as  little 
delay  as  possible.  My  wife  has  sounded  her  on  the  subject, 
and  she  has  confessed.'' 

What — what  ?  " — eagerly  interrupted  the  enamored  Wat- 
kins. 

Why,"  replied  Parsons,  "  to  say  exactly  what  she  has 
confessed,  would  be  rather  difficult,  because  they  only  spoke 
in  hints,  and  so  forth  ;  but  my  wife,  who  is  no  bad  judge  in 
these  cases,  declared  to  me  that  what  she  had  confessed  was  as 
good  as  to  say  that  she  was  not  insensible  of  your  merits — in 
fact,  that  no  other  man  should  have  her." 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  rose  hastily  from  his  seat,  and  rang 
the  bell. 

What's  that  for  ?  "  inquired  Parsons. 
I  want  to  send  the  man  for  the  bill  stamp,"  replied  Mr. 
Watkins  Tottle. 

"Then  you've  made  up  your  mind  ?  " 
I  have," — and  they  shook  hands  most  cordially.  The 
note  of  hand  was  given — the  debt  and  costs  were  paid — I  key 
was  satisfied  for  his  trouble,  and  the  two  friends  soon  found 
themselves  on  that  side  of  Mr.  Solomon  Jacobs's  establish- 
ment, on  which  most  of  his  visitors  were  very  happy  when  they 
found  themselves  once  again — to  wit,  the  <?^//side. 

Now,"  said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  as  they  drove  to  Nor- 
wood together — "  you  shall  have  an  opportunity  to  make  the 
disclosure  to-night,  and  mind  you  speak  out,  Tottle." 

"  I  will — I  will !  "  replied  Watkins,  valorously. 

"  How  I  should  like  to  see  you  together,"  ejaculated  Mr. 
Gabriel  Parsons. — "  What  fun  !  "  and  he  laughed  so  long  and 
so  loudly,  that  he  disconcerted  Mx,  Watkins  Tottle,  and  fright- 
ened the  horse. 

"  There's  Fanny  and  your  intended  walking  about  on  the 
lawn,"  said  Gabriel,  as  they  approached  the  house — Mind 
your  eye,  Tottle." 

Never  fear,"  replied  Watkins,  resolutely,  as  he  made  his 
way  to  the  spot  where  the  ladies  were  walking. 

"  Here's  Mr.  Tottle,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Parsons,  address- 
ing Miss  Lillerton.  The  lady  turned  quickly  round,  and 
acknowledged  his  courteous  salute  with  the  same  sort  of  con- 
fusion that  Watkins  had  noticed  on  their  first  interview,  but 
with  something  like  a  slight  expression  of  disappointment  oi 
carelessness. 


78o 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


Did  you  see  how  glad  she  was  to  see  you  ? "  whispered 
Parsons  to  his  friend. 

"  Why  I  really  thought  she  looked  as  if  she  would  rather 
have  seen  somebody  else/'  replied  Tottle. 

"  Pooh,  nonsense  !  "  whispered  Parsons  again  —  "  it's 
always  the  way  with  the  women,  young  or  old.  They  never 
show  how  delighted  they  are  to  see  those  whose  presence 
makes  their  hearts  beat.  It's  the  way  with  the  whole  sex,  and 
no  man  should  have  lived  to  your  time  of  life  without  knowing 
it.  Fanny  confessed  it  to  me,  when  we  were  first  married, 
over  and  over  again — see  what  it  is  to  have  a  wife." 

"  Certainly,"  whispered  Tottle,  whose  courage  was  vanish- 
ing fast. 

"  Well,  now,  you'd  better  begin  to  pave  the  way,"  said  Par- 
sons, who,  having  invested  some  money  in  the  speculation, 
assumed  the  office  of  director. 

Yes,  yes,  I  will — presently,"  replied  Tottle,  greatly  flur- 
ried. 

"  Say  something  to  her,  man,"  urged  Parsons  again. 
Confound  it !  pay  her  a  compliment,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  No  !  not  till  after  dinner,"  replied  the  bashful  Tottle,  anx- 
ious to  postpone  the  evil  moment. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  said  Mrs.  Parsons,  "you  are  really 
very  polite  ;  you  stay  away  the  whole  morning,  after  promising 
to  take  us  out,  and  when  you  do  come  home,  you  stand  whis- 
pering together  and  take  no  notice  of  us." 

"  We  were  talking  of  the  business^  my  dear,  which  detained 
us  this  morning,"  replied  Parsons,  looking  significantly  at 
Tottle - 

"  Dear  me  !  how  very  quickly  the  morning  has  gone,"  said 
Miss  Lillerton,  referring  to  the  gold  watch,  which  was  wound 
up  on  state  occasions,  whether  it  required  it  or  not. 

"/  think  it  has  passed  very  slowly,"  mildly  suggested 
Tottle. 

("  That's  right — bravo  !  ")  whispered  Parsons. 
"  Indeed  !  "  said  Miss  Lillerton,  with  an  air  of  majestic 
surprise. 

"  I  can  only  impute  it  to  my  unavoidable  absence  from 
your  society,  madam,"  said  Watkins,  "  and  that  of  Mrs.  Par- 
sons." 

During  this  short  dialogue,  the  ladies  had  been  leading  the 
way  to  the  house. 

"  What  the  deuce  did  you  stick  Fanny  into  that  last  com- 


MR.  W ATKINS  TOTTLE. 


pliment  for  ?  "  inquired  Parsons,  as  they  followed  together ;  "  it 
quite  spoilt  the  effect." 

"  Oh  !  it  really  would  have  been  too  broad  without,"  re- 
plied Watkins  Tottle,  "  much  too  broad  !  " 

"  He's  mad  !  "  Parsons  whispered  his  wife,  as  they  entered 
the  drawing-room,     mad  from  modesty." 

Dear  me  !  "  ejaculated  the  lady,  I  never  heard  of  such 
a  thing." 

"  You'll  find  we  have  quite  a  family  dinner,  Mr.  Tottle,"  said 
Mrs.  Parsons,  when  they  sat  down  to  table  :  "  Miss  Lillerton 
is  one  of  us,  and,  of  course,  we  make  no  stranger  of  you." 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  expressed  a  hope  that  the  Parsons 
family  never  would  make  a  stranger  of  him  ;  and  wished  inter- 
nally that  his  bashfulness  would  allow  him  to  feel  a  little  less 
like  a  stranger  himself. 

"Take  off  the  covers,  Martha,"  said  Mrs.  Parsons,  direct- 
ing the  shiftinj^"  of  the  scenery  with  great  anxiety.  The  order 
was  obeyed,  and  a  pair  of  boiled  fowls,  with  tongue  and  et 
ceteras,  were  displayed  at  the  top,  and  a  fillet  of  veal  at  the 
bottom.  On  one  side  of  the  table  two  green  sauce-tureens, 
with  ladles  of  the  same,  were  setting  to  each  other  in  a  green 
dish  ;  and  on  the  other  was  a  curried  rabbit,  in  a  brown  suit, 
turned  up  with  lemon. 

"  Miss  Lillerton,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs,  Parsons,  shall  I 
assist  you  ? " 

"  Thank  you,  no  ;  I  think  I'll  trouble  Mr.  Tottle." 

Watkins  started— trembled— helped  the  rabbit — and  broke 
a  tumbler.  The  countenance  of  the  lady  of  the  house,  which 
had  been  all  smiles  previously,  underwent  an  awful  change. 

Extremely  sorry,"  stammered  Watkins,  assisting  him- 
self to  currie  and  parsley  and  butter,  in  the  extremity  of  his 
confusion. 

Not  the  least  consequence,"  replied  Mrs,  Parsons,  in  a 
tone  which  implied  that  it  was  of  the  greatest  consequence 
possible, —  directing  aside  the  researches  of  the  boy,  who 
was  groping  under  the  table  for  the  bits  of  broken  glass. 

I  presume,"  said  Miss  Lillerton,  that  Mr.  Totde  is 
aware  of  the  interest  which  bachelors  usually  pay  in  such  cases  \ 
a  dozen  glasses  for  one  is  the  lowest  penalty.  ' 

Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  gave  his  friend  an  admonitory  tread 
on  the  toe.  Here  was  a  clear  hint  that  the  so0n§r  he  ceased 
to  be  a  bachelor  and  emancipated  hjmsdf  from  such  penalties, 
the  better.    Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  viev/ecj  the  observation  in  the 


782 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


same  light,  and  challenged  Mrs.  Parsons  to  take  wine,  with  a 
degree  of  presence  of  mind,  which,  under  all  the  circumstances, 
was  really  extraordinary. 

"  Miss  Lillerton,"  said  Gabriel,  "  may  I  have  the  pleas- 
ure ? 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy." 

"  Tottle,  will  you  assist  Miss  Lillerton,  and  pass  the  decan- 
ter? Thank  you."  (The  usual  pantomimic  ceremony  of  nod- 
ding and  sipping  gone  through) — 

"  Tottle,  were  you  ever  in  Suffolk  ?  "  inquired  the  master 
of  the  house,  who  was  burning  to  tell  one  of  his  seven  stock 
stories. 

"  No,"  responded  Watkins,  adding,  by  way  of  a  saving 
clause,  "but  IVe  been  in  Devonshire." 

"  Ah  !  "  replied  Gabriel,  "  it  was  in  Suffolk  that  a  rather 
singular  circumstance  happened  to  me  many  years  ago.  Did 
you  ever  happen  to  hear  me  mention  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  had  happened  to  hear  his  friend  men- 
tion it  some  four  hundred  times.  Of  course  he  expressed  great 
curiosity,  and  evinced  the  utmost  impatience  to  hear  the  story 
again.  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  forthwith  attempted  to  proceed, 
in  spite  of  the  interruptions  to  which,  as  our  readers  must 
frequently  have  observed,  the  master  of  the  house  is  often 
exposed  in  such  cases.  We  will  attempt  to  give  them  an  idea 
of  our  meaning"'. 

"When  1  was  in  Suffolk,"  said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  

"Take  off  the  fowls  first,  Martha,"  said  Mrs.  Parsons. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear." 

"  When  I  was  in  Suffolk,"  resumed  Mr.  Parsons,  with  an 
impatient  glance  at  his  wife,  who  pretended  not  to  observe  it, 
"  which  is  now  some  years  ago,  business  led  me  to  the  town  of 
Bury  St.  Edmund's.  1  had  to  stop  at  the  principal  places  in 
my  way,  and  therefore,  for  the  sake  of  convenience,  I  travelled 
in  a  gig.  I  left  Sudbury  one  dark  night — it  was  winter  time 
— about  nine  o'cbck :  the  rain  poured  in  torrents,  the  wind 
howled  among  the  trees  that  skirted  the  road-side,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  proceed  at  a  foot-pace,  for  I  could  hardly  see  my 
hand  before  me,  it  was  so  dark  " 

"  John,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Parsons,  in  a  low,  hollow  voice, 
"don't  spill  that  gravy." 

"Fanny,"  said  Parsons  impatiently,  "  I  wish  you'd  defet 
these  domestic  reproofs  to  some  more  suitable  time.  Really^ 
my  dear,  these  constant  interruptions  are  very  annoying." 


MA\  W ATKINS  TOTTLE. 


"  My  dear,  I  didn't  interrupt  you,"  said  Mrs.  Parsons. 
But,  my  dear,  you  did  interrupt  me,"  remonstrated  Mr. 
Parsons. 

"  How  very  absurd  you  are,  my  love  !  I  must  give  direc- 
tions to  the  servants;  1  am  quite  sure  that  if  I  sat  here  and 
allowed  John  to  spill  the  gravy  over  the  new  carpet,  you'd  be 
the  first  to  find  fault  when  3^ou  saw  the  stain  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

'*Well,"  continued  Gabriel  with  a  resigned  air,  as  if  he 
knew  there  was  no  getting  over  the  point  about  the  carpet,  I 
was  just  saying,  it  was  so  dark  that  I  could  hardly  see  my 
hand  before  me.  The  road  was  very  lonely,  and  I  assure 
you,  Tottle  (this  was  a  device  to  arrest  the  wandering  atten- 
tion of  that  individual,  which  was  distracted  by  a  confidential 
communication  between  Mrs.  Parsons  and  Martha,  accom- 
panied by  the  delivery  of  a  large  bunch  of  keys),  I  assure  you, 
Tottle,  I  became  somehow  impressed  with  a  sense  of  the 
loneliness  of  my  situation — " 

"  Pie  to  your  master,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Parsons,  again 
directing  the  servant. 

Now,  pray,  my  dear,"  remonstrated  Parsons,  once  more, 
very  pettishly.  Mrs.  P.  turned  up  her  hands  and  eyebrows, 
and  appealed  in  dumb  show  to  Miss  Lillerton.  As  I  turned 
a  corner  of  the  road,"  resumed  Gabriel,  '^the  horse  stopped 
short,  and  reared  tremendously.  I  pulled  up,  jumped  out,  ran 
to  his  head,  and  found  a  man  lying  on  his  back  in  the  middle 
of  the  road,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  sky.  I  thought  he  was 
dead ;  but  no,  he  was  alive,  and  there  appeared  to  be  nothing 
the  matter  with  him.  He  jumped  up,  and  putting  his  hand  to 
his  chest,  and  fixing  upon  me  the  most  earnest  gaze  you  can 
imagine,  exclaimed  " 

"  Pudding  here,"  said  Mrs.  Parsons. 

"  Oh  !  it's  no  use,"  exclaimed  the  host,  now  rendered 
desperate.  "  Here,  Tottle  ;  a  glass  of  wine.  It's  useless  to 
attempt  relating  anything  when  Mrs.  Parsons  is  present." 

This  attack  was  received  in  the  usual  way.  Mrs.  Parsons 
talked  to  Miss  Lillerton  and  at  her  better  half;  expatiated  on 
the  impatience  of  men  generally  ;  hinted  that  her  husband 
was  peculiarly  vicious  in  this  respect,  and  wound  up  by  insin- 
uating that  she  must  be  one  of  the  best  tempers  that  ever 
existed,  or  she  never  could  put  up  with  it.  Really  what  she 
had  to  endure  sometimes,  was  more  than  any  one  who  saw 
her  in  every-day  life  could  by  possibility  suppose. — The  story 


784 


SA'E  TCHE3  B  Y  BOZ. 


was  now  a  painful  subject,  and  therefore  Mr,  Parsons  declined 
to  enter  into  any  details,  and  contented  himself  by  stating 
that  the  man  was  a  maniac,  who  had  escaped  from  a  neighbor- 
ing mad-house. 

The  cloth  was  removed  ;  the  ladies  soon  afterwards  retired, 
and  Miss  Lillerton  played  the  piano  in  the  drawing-room 
overhead,  very  loudly,  for  the  edification  of  the  visitor.  Mr. 
Watkins  Tottle  and  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  sat  chatting  comfort- 
ably enough,  until  the  conclusion  of  the  second  bottle, 
when  the  latter,  in  proposing  an  adjourment  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, informed  Watkins  that  he  had  concerted  a  plan 
with  his  wife,  for  leaving  him  and  Miss  Lillerton  alone,  soon 
after  tea. 

I  say,"  said  Tottle,  as  they  went  up  stairs,  "  don't  you 
think  it  would  be  better  if  we  put  it  off  till — till — to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  it  would  have  been  much  better  if  I  had 
left  you  in  that  wretched  hole  I  found  you  in  this  morning  ? '' 
retorted  Parsons  bluntly. 

*'Well — well — I  only  made  a  suggestion,"  said  poor 
Watkins  Tottle,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

Tea  was  soon  concluded,  and  Miss  Lillerton,  drawing  a 
small  work-table  on  one  side  of  the  fire,  and  placing  a  little 
wooden  frame  upon  it,  something  like  a  miniature  clay-mill 
without  the  horse,  was  soon  busily  engaged  in  making  a  watch- 
guard  with  brown  silk. 

God  bless  me  ! "  exclaimed  Parsons,  starting  up  with 
well-feigned  surprise,  "  I've  forgotten  those  confounded  letters. 
Tottle,  I  know  you'll  excuse  me." 

If  Tottle  had  been  a  free  agent,  he  would  have  allowed  no 
one  to  leave  the  room  on  any  pretence,  except  himself.  As  it 
was,  however,  he  was  obliged  to  look  cheerful  when  Parsons 
quitted  the  apartment. 

He  had  scarcely  left,  when  Martha  put  her  head  into  the 
room,  with — Please,  ma'am,  you're  wanted." 

Mrs.  Parsons  left  the  room,  shut  the  door  carefully  after 
her,  and  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  was  left  alone  with  Miss  Liller- 
ton. 

For  the  first  five  minutes  there  was  a  dead  silence. — Mr. 
Watkins  Tottle  was  thinking  how  he  should  begin,  and  Miss 
Lillerton  appeared  to  be  thinking  of  nothing.  The  fire  was 
burning  low;  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  stirred  it,  and  put  some 
coals  on. 

Hem !  "  coughed  Miss  Lillerton  ;  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle 


MR.  W ATKINS  TOTTLE.  78 q 

thought  the  fair  creature  had  spoken.    "I  beg  your  pardon," 
said  he. 
Eh  ? " 

"  I  thought  you  spoke.*' 
"  No." 
"  Oh  !  " 

*' There  are  some  books  on  the  sofa,  Mr.  Tottle,  if  you 
would  like  to  look  at  them/'  said  Miss  Lillerton,  after  the 
lapse  of  another  five  minutes. 

^'No,  thank  you,"  returned  Watkins ;  and  then  he  added, 
with  a  courage  which  was  perfectly  astonishing,  even  to  him- 
self, "  Madam,  that  is  Miss  Lillerton,  I  wish  to  speak  to 
you." 

"  To  me  !  "  said  Miss  Lillerton,  letting  the  silk  drop  from 
her  hands,  and  sliding  her  chair  back  a  few  paces. — ^'  Speak 
— to  me  !  " 

"  To  you,  madam — and  on  the  subject  of  the  state  of 
your  affections."  The  lady  hastily  rose  and  would  have  left 
the  room  ;  but  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  gently  detained  her  by  the 
hand,  and  holding  it  as  far  from  him  as  the  joint  length  of 
their  arms  would  permit,  he  thus  proceeded  :  "  Pray  do  not 
misunderstand  me,  or  suppose  that  I  am  led  to  address  you, 
after  so  short  an  acquaintance,  by  any  feeling  of  my  own 
merits — for  merits  I  have  none  which  could  give  me  a  claim 
to  your  hand.  I  hope  you  will  acquit  me  of  any  presumption 
when  I  explain  that  I  have  been  acquainted  through  Mrs. 
Parsons,  with  the  state — that  is,  that  Mrs.  Parsons  has  told 

me — at  least,  not  Mrs.   Parsons,  but  "  here  Watkins 

began  to  wander,  but  Miss  Lillerton  relieved  him. 

"  Am  I  to  understand,  Mr.  Tottle,  that  Mrs.  Parsons  has 
acquainted  you  with  my  feeling — my  affection — I  mean  my 
respect,  for  an  individual  of  the  opposite  sex?  " 
She  has." 

Then,  what  ?  "  inquired  Miss  Lillerton,  averting  her  face, 
with  a  girlish  air,  "  what  could  induce  yon  to  seek  such  an 
interview  as  this  ?  What  can  your  object  be  ?  How  can  I 
promote  your  happiness,  Mr.  Tottle  t  " 

Here  was  the  time  for  a  flourish — By  allowing  me," 
replied  Watkins,  falling  bump  on  his  knees,  and  breaking  two 
brace-buttons  and  a  waistcoat-string,  in  the  act — By  allowing 
me  to  be  your  slave,  your  servant — in  short,  by  unreservedly 
making  me  the  confidant  of  your  heart's  feelings — may  I  say 
for  the  promotion  of  your  own  happiness — may  1  say,  in  ordef 


786 


SKE TCHES  BY  BOZ, 


that  you  may  become  the  wife  of  a  kind  and  affectionate  hus- 
band ?  " 

Disinterested  creature  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Lillerton,  hid- 
ing her  face  in  a  white  pocket-handkerchief  with  an  eyelet- 
hole  border. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  thought  that  if  the  lady  knew  all,  she 
nriight  possibly  alter  her  opinion  on  this  last  point.  He  raised 
the  tip  of  her  middle  finger  ceremoniously  to  his  lips,  and  got 
off  his  knees,  as  gracefully  as  he  could.  My  information 
was  correct  ? "  he  tremulously  inquired,  when  he  was  once 
more  on  his  feet. 

"  It  was."  Watkins  elevated  his  hands,  and  looked  up  to 
the  ornament  in  the  centre  of  the  ceiling,  which  had  been 
made  for  a  lamp,  by  way  of  expressing  his  rapture. 

"  Our  situation,  Mr.  Tottle,"  resumed  the  lady,  glancing 
at  him  through  one  of  the  eyelet-holes,  is  a  most  peculiar 
and  delicate  one." 

"  It  is,"  said  Mr.  Tottle. 

"  Our  acquaintance  has  been  of  so  short  duration,"  said 
Miss  Lillerton. 

Only  a  week,"  assented  Watkins  Tottle. 
"  Oh  1  more  than  that,"  exclaimed  the  lady,  in  a  tone  of 
surprise. 

Indeed !  "  said  Tottle. 
^'  More  than  a  month — more  than  two  months  !  "  said  Miss 
Lillerton. 

"Rather  odd,  this,"  thought  Watkins. 
Oh !  "  he  said,  recollecting  Parsons's  assurance  that  she 
had  known  him  from  report,  "  I  understand.  But,  my  dear 
madam,  pray,  consider.  The  longer  this  acquaintance  has 
existed,  the  less  reason  is  there  for  delay  now.  Why  not  at 
once  fix  a  period  for  gratifying  the  hopes  of  your  devoted 
admirer  ?  " 

"  It  has  been  represented  to  me  again  and  again  that  this 
is  the  course  I  ought  to  pursue,"  replied  Miss  Lillerton, "  but 
pardon  my  feelings  of  delicacy,  Mr.  Tottle — pray  excuse  this 
embarrassment — I  have  peculiar  ideas  on  such  subjects,  and 
I  am  quite  sure  that  I  never  could  summon  up  fortitude 
enough  to  name  the  day  to  my  future  husband." 

Then  allow  me  to  name  it,"  said  Tottle  eagerly. 

"  I  should  like  to  fix  it  myself,"  replied  Miss  Lillerton, 
bashfully,  "  but  I  cannot  do  so  without  at  once  resorting  to  a 
third  party." 


MR.  W ATKINS  TOTTLE. 


787 


"A  third  party!"  thought  Watkins  Tottle  ;  who  the 
deuce  is  that  to  be,  I  wonder !  " 

Mr.  Tottle/'  continued  Miss  Lillerton,  "you  have  made 
me  a  most  disinterested  and  kind  offer — that  offer  I  accept. 
Will  you  at  once  be  the  bearer  of  a  note  from  me — to  Mr, 
Timson  ? " 

"  Mr.  Timson  !  "  said  Watkins. 

"  After  what  has  passed  between  us,"  responded  Miss 
Lillerton,  still  averting  her  head,  "  you  must  understand 
whom  I  mean  ;  Mr.  Timson,  the — the — clergyman." 

"  Mr.  Timson,  the  clergyman  !  "  ejaculated  Watkins  Tot- 
tle, in  a  state  of  inexpressible  beatitude,  and  positive  wonder 
at  his  own  success,    "  Angel  !    Certainly — this  moment !  " 

"  I'll  prepare  it  immediately,"  said  Miss  Lillerton,  making 
for  the  door ;  the  events  of  this  day  have  flurried  me  so 
much,  Mr.  Tottle,  that  I  shall  not  leave  my  room  again  this 
evening  ;  I  will  sehd'you  the  note  by  the  servant." 

"  Stay, — stay,"  c/ied  M^atkins  Tottle,  still  keeping  a  most 
respectful  distance  ftoia  the  lady  ;  "  when  shall  we  meet 
again  1  " 

''Oh!  Mr.  Tottle,"  replied  Miss  Lillerton,  coquettishly, 
"when  we  are  married,  1  caii  never  see  you  too  often,  nor 
thank  you  too  much  ; "  and  she  left  the  room. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  flung  himself  into  an  arm-chair,  and 
indulged  in  the  most  delicious  reveries  of  future  bliss,  in 
which  the  idea  of  "  Five  hundred  ^>ounds  per  annum^  with  an 
uncontrolled  power  of  disposing  oi:  it  by  her  last  will  and 
testament,"  was  somehow  or  othei'  ihe  foremost.  He  had 
gone  through  the  interview  so  well,  and  it  had  terminated  so 
admirably,  that  he  almost  began  to  wish  he  had  expressly 
stipulated  for  the  settlement  of  the  ^nnxul  five  hundred  on 
himself. 

"  May  I  come  in  ? "  said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  peeping  in 
at  the  door. 

"  You  may,"  replied  Watkins. 

"  Well,  have  you  done  it?"  anxiously  inquired  Gabriel. 

"Have  I  done  it! "said  Watkins  Tottle,  "Hush— I'm 
going  to  the  clergyman." 

"  No  I  "  said  Parsons.  "  How  well  you  have  managed  it !  " 

"Where  does  Timson  live?  "  inquired  Watkins. 

"  At  his  uncle's,"  replied  Gabriel,  "just  round  the  lane. 
He's  waiting  for  a  living,  and  has  been  assisting  his  uncle 
here  for  the  last  two  or  three  months.    But  how  well  you 


788 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


have  done  it — I  didn't  think  you  coi;ld  have  carried  it 
off  so !  " 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  was  proceeding  to  demonstrate  that 
the  Richardsonian  principle  was  the  best  on  which  love  could 
possibly  be  made,  when  he  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance 
of  Martha,  with  a  little  pink  note  folded  like  a  fancy  cocked- 
hat. 

Miss  Lillerton's  compliments,"  said  Martha,  as  she  de- 
livered it  into  Tottle's  hands,  and  vanished. 

"  Do  you  observe  the  delicacy  ?  "  said  Tottle,  appealing  to 
Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons.  "  Co?npliments  not  love^  by  the  servant, 
eh.?" 

Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  didn't  exactly  know  what  reply  to 
make,  so  he  poked  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  between 
the  third  and  fourth  ribs  of  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle. 

"  Come,"  said  Watkins,  when  the  explosion  of  mirth,  con- 
sequent on  this  practical  jest,  had  subsided,  we'll  be  off  at 
once — let's  lose  no  time." 

"  Capital !  "  echoed  Gabriel  Parsons  ;  and  in  five  minutes 
they  were  at  the  garden-gate  of  the  villa  tenanted  by  the  uncle 
of  Mr.  Timson. 

"  Is  Mr.  Charles  Timson  at  home  .?  "  inquired  Mr.  Wat- 
kins Tottle  of  Mr.  Charles  Timson's  uncle's  man. 

"  Mr.  Charles  is  at  home,"  replied  the  man,  stammering ; 
"  but  he  desired  me  to  say  he  couldn't  be  interrupted,  sir,  by 
any  of  the  parishioners." 

"7  am  not  a  parishioner,"  replied  Watkins. 
Is  Mr.  Charles  writing  a  sermon,  Tom  ?  "  inquired  Par- 
sons, thrusting  himself  torward. 

"  No,  Mr.  Parsons,  sir ;  he's  not  exactly  writing  a  sermon, 
but  he  is  practising  the  violoncello  in  his  own  bedroom,  and 
gave  strict  orders  not  to  be  disturbed." 

"  Say  I'm  here,"  replied  Gabriel,  leading  the  way  across 
the  garden  ;  "  Mr.  Parsons  and  Mr.  Tottle,  on  private  and 
particular  business." 

They  v;ere  shown  into  the  parlor,  and  the  servant  departed 
to  deliver  his  message.  The  distant  groaning  of  the  violon- 
cello  ceased  ;  footsteps  were  heard  on  the  stairs  ;  and  Mr. 
Timson  presented  himself,  and  shook  hands  with  Parsons 
with  the  utmost  cordiality. 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir .? "  said  Watkins  Tottle,  with  great 
solemnity. 

*'PIow  do  you  do,  sir.?"  replied  Timson,  with  as  much 


MR.  W ATKINS  TOTTLE. 


789 


coldness  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  perfect  indifference  to  him 
how  he  did,  as  it  very  likely  was. 

"  I  beg  to  deliver  this  note  to  you,"  said  Watkins  Tottle, 
producing  the  cocked-hat. 

From  Miss  Lillerton  !  "  said  Timson,  suddenly  changing 
color.    "  Pray  sit  down." 

Mr.  Watknis  Tottle  sat  down  ;  and  while  Timson  perused 
the  note,  fixed  his  eyes  on  an  oyster-sauce-colored  portrait  of 
the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  which  hung  over  the  fireplace. 

Mr.  Timson  rose  from  his  seat  when  he  had  concluded 
the  note,  and  looked  dubiously  at  Parsons — "  May  I  ask," 
he  inquired,  appealing  to  Watkins  Tottle,  whether  our 
friend  here  is  acquainted  with  the  object  of  your  visit  ?  " 

"  Our  friend  is  in  my  confidence,"  replied  Watkins,  with 
considerable  importance. 

"  Then,  sir,"  said  Timson,  seizing  both  Tottle's  hands, 
"  allow  me  in  his  presence  to  thank  you  most  unfeignedly 
and  cordially,  for  the  noble  part  you  have  acted  in  this 
affair." 

"  He  thinks  I  recommended  him,"  thought  Tottle.  "Con- 
found these  fellows  !  they  never  think  of  anything  but  theii 
fees." 

"  I  deeply  regret  having  misunderstood  your  intentions, 
my  dear  sir,"  continued  Timson.  Disinterested  and  manly, 
indeed  !  There  are  very  few  men  who  would  have  acted  as 
you  have  done." 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  could  not  help  thinking  that  this  last 
remark  was  anything  but  complimentary.  He  therefore  in- 
quired, rather  hastily,  "  When  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

"On  Thursday,"  replied  Timson, — "On  Thursday  morn- 
ing at  half-past  eight." 

"  Uncommonly  early,"  observed  Watkins  Tottle,  with  an 
air  of  triumphant  self-denial.  •  "  I  shall  hardly  be  able  to  get 
down  here  by  that  hour."    (This  was  intended  for  a  joke.) 

"  Never  mind,  my  dear  fellow,"  replied  Timson,  all  suavity, 
shaking  hands  with  Tottle  again  most  heartily,  "  so  long  as 
we  see  you  to  breakfast,  you  know — " 

"  Eh  !  "  said  Parsons,  with  one  of  the  most  extraordinary 
expressions  of  countenance  that  ever  appeared  in  a  human 
face. 

"  What  !  "  ejaculated  Watkins  Tottle,  at  the  same  mo- 
ment. 

"  I  say  that  so  long  as  we  see  you  to  breakfast,"  replied 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


Timson,  "  we  will  excuse  your  being  absent  from  the  cere* 
mony,  though  of  course  your  presence  at  it  would  give  us  the 
utmost  pleasure. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  staggered  against  the  wall,  and  fixed 
his  eyes  on  Timson  with  appalling  preseverance. 

Timson,"  said  Parsons,  hurriedly  brushing  his  hat  with 
his  left  arm,  "  when  you  say  ^  us,'  whom  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Mr.  Timson  looked  foolish  in  his  turn,  when  he  replied, 
"  Why — Mrs,  Timson  that  will  be  this  day  week  ;  Miss 
Lillerton  that  is — " 

"  Now  don't  stare  at  that  idiot  in  the  corner,"  angrily  ex- 
claimed Parsons,  as  the  extraordinary  convulsions  of  Watkins 
Tottle's  countenance  excited  the  wondering  gaze  of  Timson, 
— "  but  have  the  goodness  to  tell  me  in  three  words  the  con- 
tents of  that  note." 

This  note,"  replied  Timson,  "  is  from  Miss  Lillerton, 
to  whom  I  have  been  for  the  last  five  weeks  regularly  en- 
gaged. Her  singular  scruples  and  strange  feeling  on  some 
points  have  hitherto  prevented  my  bringing  the  engagement 
to  that  termination  which  I  so  anxiously  desire.  She  informs 
me  here,  that  she  sounded  Mrs.  Parsons  with  the  view  of 
making  her  her  confidante  and  go-between,  that  Mrs.  Parsons 
informed  this  elderly  gentleman,  Mr.  Tottle,  of  the  circum- 
stance, and  that  he,  in  the  most  kind  and  delicate  terms, 
offered  to  assist  us  in  any  way,  and  even  undertook  to  convey 
this  note,  which  contains  the  promise  I  have  long  sought  in 
vain — an  act  of  kindness  for  which  I  can  never  be  sufficiently 
grateful." 

Good-night,  Timson,"  said  Parsons,  hurrying  off,  and 
carrying  the  bewildered  Tottle  with  him. 

Won't  you  stay — and  have  something?    said  Timson. 
"  No,  thank  ye,"  replied    Parsons ;   "  I've   had  quite 
enough  ;"  and  away  he  went,  followed  by  Watkins  Tottle  in 
a  state  of  stupefaction. 

Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  whistled  until  they  had  walked  some 
quarter  of  a  mile  past  his  own  gate,  when  he  suddenly  stopped, 
and  said — 

You  are  a  clever  fellow,  Tottle,  ain't  you  ? 
"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  unfortunate  Watkins. 
I  suppose  you'll  say  this  is  Fanny's  fault,  won't  you  ?  " 
inquired  Gabriel. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  replied  the  bewildered 
Tottle. 


THE  BLOOMSBURY  CHRISTENING. 


Well/'  said  Parsons,  turning  on  his  heel  to  go  home, 
the  next  time  you  make  an  offer,  you  had  better  speak 
plainly,  and  don't  throw  a  chance  away.  And  the  next  time 
you're  locked  up  in  a  spunging-house,  just  wait  there  till  I 
come  and  take  you  out,  there's  a  good  fellow." 

How,  or  at  what  hour,  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  returned  to 
Cecil-street  is  unknown.  His  boots  were  seen  outside  his 
bedroom-door  next  morning;  but  we  have  the  authority  of 
his  landlady  for  stating  that  he  neither  emerged  therefrom 
nor  accepted  sustenance  for  four-and-twenty  hours.  At  the 
expiration  of  that  period,  and  when  a  council  of  war  was  being 
held  in  the  kitchen  on  the  propriety  of  summoning  the 
parochial  beadle  to  break  his  door  open,  he  rang  his  bell,  and 
demanded  a  cup  of  milk-and-water.  The  next  morning  he 
went  through  the  formalities  of  eating  and  drinking  as  usual, 
but  a  week  afterwards  he  was  seized  with  a  relapse,  while  pe- 
rusing the  list  of  marriages  in  a  morning  paper,  from  which  he 
never  perfectly  recovered. 

A  few  weeks  after  the  last  named  occurrence,  the  body  of 
a  gentleman  unknown,  was  found  in  the  Regent's  canal.  In 
the  trousers-pockets  were  four  shillings  and  threepence  half- 
penny ;  a  matrimonial  advertisement  from  a  lady,  which 
appeared  to  have  been  cut  out  of  a  Sunday  paper ;  a  tooth- 
pick, and  a  card-case,  which  it  is  confidently  believed  would 
have  led  to  the  identification  of  the  unfortunate  gentleman, 
but  for  the  circumstance  of  there  being  none  but  blank  cards 
in  it.  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  absented  himself  from  his  lodgings 
shortly  before.  A  bill,  which  has  not  been  taken  up,  was 
presented  next  morning ;  and  a  bill,  which  has  not  been 
taken  down,  was  soon  afterwards  affixed  in  his  parlor-window. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  BLOOMSBURY  CHRISTENING. 

Mr.  Nicodemus  Dumps,  or,  as  his  acquaintance  called  him, 
long  Dumps,"  was  a  bachelor,  six  feet  high,  and  fifty  years 
old  ;  cross,  cadaverous,  odd,  and  ill-natured.    He  was  never 
happy  but  when  he  was  miserable  ;  and  always  miserable 
when  he  had  the  best  reason  to  be  happy.    The  only  real 
34 


792 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


comfort  of  his  existence  was  to  make  everybody  about  him 
wretched — then  he  might  be  truly  said  to  enjoy  life.  He  was 
afflicted  with  a  situation  in  the  Bank  worth  five  hundred 
a-year,  and  he  rented  a  "  first-floor  furnished,"  at  Pentonville, 
which  he  originally  took  because  it  commanded  a  dismal 
prospect  of  an  adjacent  churchyard.  He  was  familiar  with 
the  face  of  every  tombstone,  and  the  burial  service  seemed  to 
excite  his  strongest  sympathy.  His  friends  said  he  was  surly 
— he  insisted  he  was  nervous  ;  they  thought  him  a  lucky  dog, 
but  he  protested  that  he  was  "  the  most  unfortunate  man  in 
the  world.''  Cold  as  he  was,  and  wretched  as  he  declared 
himself  to  be,  he  was  not  wholly  susceptible  of  attachments. 
He  revered  the  memory  of  Hoyle,  as  he  was  himself  an 
admirable  and  imperturbable  whist-player,  and  he  chuckled 
with  delight  at  a  fretful  and  impatient  adversary.  He  adored 
King  Herod  for  his  massacre  of  the  innocents  ;  and  if  he 
hated  one  thing  more  than  another,  it  was  a  child.  Hov/ever, 
he  could  hardly  be  said  to  hate  anything  in  particular,  because 
he  disliked  everything  in  general ;  but  perhaps  his  greatest 
antipathies  were  cabs,  old  women,  doors  that  would  not  shut, 
musical  amateurs,  and  omnibus  cads.  He  subscribed  to  the 
"  Society  for  the  Suppression  of  Vice ''  for  the  pleasure  of 
putting  a  stop  to  any  harmless  amusements  ;  and  he  con- 
tributed largely  towards  the  support  of  two  itinerant  methodist 
parsons,  in  the  amiable  hope  that  if  circumstances  rendered 
any  people  happy  in  this  world,  they  might  perchance  be 
rendered  miserable  by  fears  for  the  next. 

Mr.  Dumps  had  a  nephew  who  had  been  married  about  a 
year,  and  who  was  somewhat  of  a  favorite  with  his  uncle,  be- 
cause he  was  an  admirable  subject  to  exercise  his  misery- 
creating  powers  upon.  Mr.  Charles  Kitterbell  was  a  small, 
sharp,  spare  man,  with  a  very  large  head,  and  a  broad,  good- 
*  humored  countenance.  He  looked  like  a  faded  giant,  "dth 
the  head  and  face  partially  restored  ;  and  he  had  a  car^^  in 
his  eye  which  rendered  it  quite  impossible  for  any  one  w^th 
whom  he  conversed  to  know  where  he  was  looking.  His  eyes 
appeared  fixed  on  the  wall,  and  he  was  staring  you  OMt  of 
countenance  ;  in  short,  there  was  no  catcl  mg  his  eye,  and  per- 
haps  it  is  a  merciful  dispensation  of  Providence  that  suck 
eyes  are  not  catching.  In  addition  to  these  characteristics,  it 
may  be  added  that  Mr.  Charles  Kitterbell  was  one  of  the 
most  credulous  and  matter-of-fact  little  personages  that  ever 
took  to  himself  a  wife,  and  for  himself  a  house  in  Great  Russell- 


THE  BLOOMSBURY  CHRISTEIVING.  793 

street,  Bedford-square.  (Uncle  Dumps  always  dropped  the 
"Bedford-square,"  and  inserted  in  lieu  thereof  the  dreadful 
words  "  Tottenham-court-road.") 

"  No,  but  uncle,  'pon  my  life  you  must — you  must  promise 
to  be  godfather,"  said  Mr.  Kitterbell,  as  he  sat  in  conversa- 
tion with  his  respected  relative  one  morning. 

"  I  cannot,  indeed  I  cannot,"  returned  Dumps. 

"Well,  but  why  not  Jemima  will  think  it  very  unkind. 
It's  very  little  trouble." 

"As  to  the  trouble,"  rejoined  the  most  unhappy  man  in 
existence,  "  I  don't  mind  that ;  but  my  nerves  are  in  that 
state — I  cannot  go  through  the  ceremony.  You  know  I  don't 
like  going  out. — For  God's  sake,  Charles,  don't  fidget  with 
that  stool  so  ;  you'll  drive  me  mad."  Mr.  Kitterbell,  quite 
regardless  of  his  uncle's  nerves,  had  occupied  himself  for 
some  ten  minutes  in  describing  a  circle  on  the  floor  with  one 
leg  of  the  office-stool  on  which  he  was  seated,  keeping  the 
other  three  up  in  the  air,  and  holding  fast  on  by  the  desk. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  uncle,"  said  Kitterbell,  quite  abashed, 
suddenly  releasing  his  hold  of  the  desk,  and  bringing  the 
three  wandering  legs  back  to  the  floor,  with  a  force  sufficient 
to  drive  them  through  it. 

"  But  come,  don't  refuse.  If  it's  a  boy,  you  know,  we 
must  have  two  godfathers." 

If  it's  a  boy!"  said  Dumps;  "why  can't  you  say  at 
once  whether  it  is  a  boy  or  not  ? " 

"  I  should  be  very  happy  to  tell  you,  but  it's  impossible  I 
can  undertake  to  say  whether  it's  a  girl  or  a  boy,  if  the  child 
isn't  born  yet." 

"  Not  born  yet  ! "  echoed  Dumps,  with  a  gleam  of  hope 
lighting  up  his  lugubrious  visage.  "  Oh,  well,  it  may  be  a 
girl,  and  then  you  won't  want  me  ;  or  if  it  is  a  boy,  it  may  dA.^ 
before  it  is  christened." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  the  father  that  expected  to  be,  looking 
very  grave. 

"  1  hope  not,"  acquiesced  Dumps,  evidently  pleased  with 
the  subject.  He  was  beginning  to  get  happy,  "/hope  not, 
but  distressing  cases  frequently  occur  during  the  first  two  or 
three  days  of  a  child's  life  ;  fits,  I  am  told,  are  exceedingly 
common,  and  alarming  convulsions  are  almost  matters  of 
course." 

"Lord,  uncle!"  ejaculated  little  Kitterbell,  gasping  foi 
breath. 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 

Yes  ;  my  landlady  was  confined — let  me  see — last  Tues- 
day  :  an  uncommonly  fine  boy.  On  the  Thursday  night  the 
nurse  was  sitting  with  him  upon  her  knee  before  the  fire,  and 
he  was  as  well  as  possible.  Suddenly  he  became  black  in 
the  face,  and  alarmingly  spasmodic.  The  medical  man  was 
instantly  sent  for,  and  every  remedy  was  tried,  but — " 

How  frightful !  "  interrupted  the  horror-stricken  Kitter 

bell. 

"  The  child  died,  of  course.  However,  your  child  ^nay 
not  die ;  and  if  it  should  be  a  boy,  and  should  /ive  to  be 
christened,  why  I  suppose  I  must  be  one  of  the  sponsors." 
Dumps  was  evidently  good-natured  on  the  faith  of  his  antici 
pations. 

^'  Thank  you,  uncle,^'  said  his  agitated  nephew,  grasping 
his  hand  as  warmly  as  if  he  had  done  him  some  essential  ser- 
vice. "  Perhaps  I  had  better  not  tell  Mrs.  K.  what  you  have 
mentioned." 

"  Why,  if  she's  low  spirited,  perhaps  you  had  better  not 
mention  the  melancholy  case  to  her,"  returned  Dumps,  who 
of  course  had  invented  the  whole  story  ;  though  perhaps  it 
would  be  but  doing  your  duty  as  a  husband  to  prepare  her 
for  the  worst'' 

A  day  or  iwo  afterwards,  as  Dumps  was  perusing  a  morn- 
ing paper  at  the  chop-house  which  he  regularly  frequented, 
the  following  paragraph  met  his  eyes  : — 

Births, — On  Saturday,  the  i8th  inst.,  in  Great  Russell-street,  the  lady  of  Charles 
Kitterbell,  Esq.,of  a  son. 

"  It  is  a  boy !  "  he  exclaimed,  dashing  down  the  paper,  to 
the  astonishment  of  the  waiters.  "  It  is  a  boy  !  "  But  he 
speedily  regained  his  composure  as  his  eye  rested  on  a  para- 
graph quoting  the  number  of  infant  deaths  from  the  bills  of 
mortality. 

Six  weeks  passed  away,  and  as  no  communication  had 
been  received  from  the  Kitterbells,  Dumps  was  beginning  to 
flatter  himself  that  the  child  was  dead,  when  the  following 
note  painfully  resolved  his  doubts  : — 

Great  Russell-street, 

Monday  Morning, 

"Dear  Uncle, — You  will  be  delighted  to  hear  that  my 
dear  Jemima  has  left  her  room,  and  that  your  future  godson 


THE  BLOOMSBURY  CHRISTENING. 


is  getting  on  capitally.  He  was  very  thin  at  first,  but  he  is 
getting  much  larger,  and  nurse  says  he  is  filling  out  every 
day.  He  cries  a  good  deal,  and  is  a  very  singular  color, 
which  made  Jemima  and  me  rather  uncomfortable ;  but  as 
nurse  says  it's  natural,  and  as  of  course  we  know  nothing 
about  these  things  yet,  we  are  quite  satisfied  with  what  nurse 
says.  We  think  he  will  be  a  sharp  child  ;  and  nurse  says 
she's  sure  he  will,  because  he  never  goes  to  sleep.  You  will 
readily  believe  that  we  are  all  very  happy,  only  we're  a  little 
worn  out  for  want  of  rest,  as  he  keeps  us  awake  all  night  ;  but 
this  we  must  expect,  nurse  says,  for  the  first  six  or  eight 
months.  He  has  been  vaccinated,  but  in  consequence  of  the 
operation  being  rather  awkwardly  performed,  some  small  par- 
ticles of  glass  were  introduced  into  the  arm  with  the  matter. 
Perhaps  this  may  in  some  degree  account  for  his  being  rnther 
fractious ;  at  least,  so  nurse  says.  We  propose  to  have  him 
christened  at  twelve  o'clock  on  Friday,  at  Saint  George's 
church,  in  Hart-street,  by  the  name  of  Frederick  Charles 
William.  Pray  don't  be*  later  than  a  quarter  before  twelve. 
Wc  shall  have  a  very  few  friends  in  the  evening,  when  of 
course  we  shall  see  you.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  the  dear  boy 
appears  rather  restless  and  uneasy  to-day :  the  cause,  I  fear 
is  fever. 

'  Believe  me,  dear  Uncle, 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

Charles  Kitterbell. 

"  P.S — I  open  this  note  to  say  that  we  have  just  discovered 
the  cause  of  little  Frederick's  restlessness.  It  is  not  fever, 
as  I  apprehend,  but  a  small  pin,  v/hich  nurse  accidentally 
stuck  in  his  leg  yesterday  evening.  We  have  taken  it  out, 
and  he  appears  more  composed,  though  he  still  sobs  a  good 
deal.  ' 

It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  say  that  the  perusal  of  the 
above  interesting  statement  v/as  no  great  relief  to  the  mind 
of  the  hypochondriacal  Dumps.  It  was  impossible  to  recede, 
however,  and  so  he  put  the  best  face — that  is  to  say,  an  un- 
commonly miserable  one — upon  the  matter ;  and  purchased  a 
handsome  silver  mug  for  the  infant  Kitterbell,  upon  which  he 
ordered  the  initials  "  F.  C.  W.  K.,"  with  the  customary  un- 
trained grape-vine-looking  flourishes,  and  a  large  full  stop, 
to  be  engraved  forthwith. 


796 


SKE TCHES  BY  BOZ. 


Monday  was  a  fine  clay,  Tuesday  was  delightful,  Wednes- 
day was  equal  to  either,  and  Thursday  was  finer  than  ever ; 
four  successive  fine  days  in  London !  Hackney-coachmen 
became  revolutionary,  and  crossing-sweepers  began  to  doubt 
the  existence  of  a  First  Cause.  The  Morning  Herald  informed 
its  readers  that  an  old  woman  in  Camden  Town  had  been 
heard  to  say  that  the  fineness  of  the  season  was  ^'  unprece- 
dented in  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant;"  and  Isling 
ton  clerks,  with  large  famiHes  and  small  salaries,  left  off  theii 
black  gaiters,  disdained  to  carry  their  once  green  cotton  um- 
brellas, and  walked  to  town  in  the  conscious  pride  of  white 
stockings  and  cleanly  brushed  Bluchers.  Dumps  beheld  all 
this  with  an  eye  of  supreme  contempt — his  triumph  was  at 
hand.  He  knew  that  if  it  had  been  fine  for  four  wrecks  in- 
stead of  four  days,  it  would  rain  when  he  went  out  ;  he  was 
lugubriously  happy  in  the  conviction  that  Friday  would  be  a 
wretched  day — and  so  it  was.  I  knew  how  it  would  be," 
said  Dumps,  as  he  turned  round  opposite  the  Mansion-house 
at  half-past  eleven  o'clock  on  the  Friday  morning.  I  knew 
how  it  would  be.  /  am  concerned,  and  that's  enough  ;  " — and 
certainly  the  appearance  of  the  day  was  sufBcient  to  depress 
the  spirits  of  a  much  more  buoyant-hearted  individual  than 
himself.  It  had  rained,  without  a  moment's  cessation,  since 
eight  o'clock  ;  everybody  that  passed  up  Cheapside,  and  down 
Cheapside,  looked  wet,  cold,  and  dirty.  All  sorts  of  forgotten 
and  long-concealed  umbrellas  had  been  put  in  requisition. 
Cabs  whisked  about,  with  the  "  fare  "  as  carefully  boxed  up 
behind  two  glazed  calico  curtains  as  any  mysterious  picture 
in  any  one  of  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  castles  ;  omnibus  horses  smoked 
like  steam-engines  ;  nobody  thought  of  "  standing-up  "  under 
doorways  or  arches  ;  they  were  painfully  convinced  it  was 
a  hopeless  case ;  and  so  everybody  went  hastily  along,  jumb- 
ling and  jostling,  and  swearing  and  perspiring,  and  slipping 
about,  like  amateur  skaters  behind  wooden  chairs  on  the  Ser- 
pentine on  a  frosty  Sunday. 

Dumps  paused  ;  he  could  not  think  of  walking,  being 
rather  smart  for  the  christening.  If  he  took  a  cab  he  was 
sure  to  be  spilt,  and  a  hackney-coach  was  too  expensive  for 
his  economical  ideas.  An  omnibus  was  waiting  at  the  oppo- 
site corner — it  was  a  desperate  case — he  had  never  heard  of 
an  omnibus  upsetting  or  running  away,  and  if  the  cad  die? 
knock  him  down,  he  could  ''pull  him  up"  in  return. 

"  Now,  sir  !  "  cried  the  young  gentleman  who  ofHciated  as 


THE  BLOOMSBURY  CHRISTENING. 


797 


"cad''  to  the  Lads  of  the  Village/'  which  was  the  name  of 
the  machine  just  noticed.    Dumps  crossed. 

"  This  vay,  sir  !  "  shouted  the  driver  of  the  "  Hark-away,'^ 
pulling  up  his  vehicle  immediately  across  the  door  of  the  op- 
position— This  vay,  sir — he's  full."  Dumps  hesitated,  where- 
upon the  Lads  of  the  Village  "  commenced  pouring  out  a 
torrent  of  abuse  against  the  Hark-away  ;  "  but  the  conduc- 
tor of  the  "  Admiral  Napier  "  settled  the  contest  in  a  most 
satisfactory  manner,  for  all  parties,  by  seizing  Dumps  round 
the  waist,  and  thrusting  him  into  the  middle  of  his  vehicle 
which  had  just  come  up  and  only  wanted  the  sixteenth 
inside. 

"All  right,"  said  the  Admiral,"  and  ol¥  the  thing  thun- 
dered, like  a  fire-engine  at  full  gallop,  with  the  kidnapped 
customer  inside,  standing  in  the  position  of  a  half  doubled-up 
bootjack,  and  falling  about  with  every  jerk  of  the  machine, 
first  on  the  one  side,  and  then  on  the  other,  like  a  "Jack-in- 
the-green,"  on  May-day,  setting  to  the  lady  with  a  brass  ladle. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  where  am  I  to  sit  ?  "  inquired  the 
miserable  man  of  an  old  gentleman,  into  whose  stomach  he 
had  just  fallen  for  the  fourth  time. 

"  Anyw^here  but  on  my  chesty  sir,"  replied  the  old  gentle- 
man in  a  surly  tone. 

"Perhaps  the  box  would  suit  the  gentleman  better,"  sug- 
gested a  very  damp  lawyer's  clerk,  in  a  pink  shirt,  and  a  smirk- 
ing countenance. 

After  a  great  deal  of  struggling  and  falling  about.  Dumps 
at  last  managed  to  squeeze  himself  into  a  seat,  which  in  addi- 
tion to- the  slight  disadvantage  of  being  between  a  window 
that  would  not  shut,  and  a  door  that  must  be  open,  placed 
him  in  close  contact  with  a  passenger,  who  had  been  walking 
about  all  the  morning  without  an  umbrella,  and  who  looked 
as  if  he  had  spent  the  day  in  a  full  water-butt — only  wetter. 

"  Don't  bang  the  door  so,"  said  Dumps  to  the  conductor, 
as  he  shut  it  after  letting  out  four  of  the  passengers ;  "  I  am 
very  nervous — it  destroys  me." 

"  Did  any  gen'l'm'n  say  anythink  ? "  replied  the  cad, 
thrusting  in  his  head,  and  trying  to  look  as  if  he  didn't  under- 
stand the  request. 

"  I  told  you  not  to  bang  the  door  so  1  '  repeated  Dumps, 
with  an  expression  of  countenance  like  the  knave  of  clubs,  in 
convulsions. 


798 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


Oh !  vy,  it's  rather  a  singUer  circumstance  about  this 
here  door,  sir,  that  it  von't  shut  without  banging,"  repUed  the 
conductor ;  and  he  opened  the  door  very  wide,  and  shut  it 
again  with  a  terrific  bang,  in  proof  of  the  assertion. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  a  Uttle  prim,  wheezing  old 
gentleman,  sitting  opposite  Dumps,  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  but 
have  you  ever  observed,  when  you  have  been  in  an  omnibus 
on  a  wet  day,  that  four  people  out  of  five  always  come  in  witli 
large  cotton  umbrellas,  without  a  handle  at  the  top,  or  the 
brass  spike  at  the  bottom  ?  " 

Why,  sir,"  returned  Dumps,  as  he  heard  the  clock  strike 
twelve,  "  it  never  struck  me  before  ;  but  now  you  mention  it, 

I  Hollo!  hollo!"  shouted  the  persecuted  individual,  as 

the  omnibus  dashed  past  Drury-lane,  where  he  had  directed  to 
be  set  down. — "  Where  is  the  cad  " 

"  I  think  he's  on  the  box,  sir,"  said  the  young  gentleman 
before  noticed  in  the  pink  shirt,  which  looked  like  a  white  one 
ruled  with  red  ink. 

I  want  to  be  set  down  !  "  said  Dumps  in  a  faint  voice, 
overcome  by  his  previous  efforts. 

"  I  think  these  cads  want  to  be  set  dow7i^'^  returned  the  at 
torney's  clerk,  chuckling  at  his  sally. 
Hollo  !  "  cried  Dumps  again. 

"  Hollo  !  "  echoed  the  passengers.  The  omnibus  passed 
St.  Giles's  church. 

"  Hold  hard  !  "  said  the  conductor ;  "  I'm  blowed  if  we 
ha'n't  forgot  thegen'lm'n  as  vas  to  be  set  down  at  Doory-lane. 
■ — Now,  sir,  make  haste,  if  you  please,"  he  added,  opening 
the  door,  and  assisting  Dumps  out  with  as  much  coolness  as 
if  it  was  all  right."  Dump's  indignation  was  for  once  get- 
ting the  better  of  his  cynical  equanimity,  Drury-lane  !  "  he 
gasped,  with  the  voice  of  a  boy  in  a  cold  bath  for  the  first 
time. 

"  Doory-lane,  sir  ? — yes,  sir, — third  turning  on  the  right- 
hand  side,  sir." 

Dumps's  passion  was  paramount :  he  clutched  his  um- 
brella,, and  was  striding  off  with  the  firm  determination  of  not 
paying  the  fare.  The  cad,  by  a  remarkable  coincidence,  hap- 
pened to  entertain  a  directly  contrary  opinion,  and  Heaven 
knows  how  far  the  altercation  would  have  proceeded,  if  it  had 
not  been  most  ably  and  satisfactorily  brought  to  a  close  by 
the  driver. 

Hollo !  "  said  that  respectable  person,  standing  up  on 


THE  BLOOMSBURY  CHRISTENING 


the  box,  and  leaning  with  one  hand  on  the  roof  of  the  omni- 
bus. "  Hollo,  Tom  !  tell  the  gentleman  if  so  be  as  he  feels 
aggrieved,  we  will  take  him  up  to  the  Edge-er  (Edgware) 
Road  for  nothing,  and  set  him  down  at  Doory-lane  when  we 
comes  back.    He  can't  reject  that,  anyhow.'^ 

The  argument  was  irresistible  :  Dumps  paid  the  disputed 
sixpence,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  was  on  the  staircase  of 
No.  14,  Great  Russell-street. 

Everything  indicated  that  preparations  were  making  for 
the  reception  of  "  a  few  friends  in  the  evening.  Two  dozen 
extra  tumblers,  and  four  ditto  wineglasses — looking  anything 
but  transparent,  with  little  bits  of  straw  in  them — were  on  the 
slab  in  the  passage,  just  arrived.  There  was  a  great  smell  of 
nutmeg,  port  wine,  and  almonds,  on  the  staircase  ;  the  covers 
were  taken  off  the  stair-carpet,  and  the  figure  of  Venus  on 
the  first  landing  looked  as  if  she  were  ashamed  of  the  com- 
position-candle in  her  right  hind,  which  contrasted  beautifully 
with  the  lamp-blacked  drapery  of  the  goddess  of  love.  The 
female  servant  (who  looked  very  warm  and  bustling)  ushered 
Dumps  into  a  front  drawing-room,  very  prettily  furnished, 
with  a  plentiful  sprinkling  of  little  baskets,  paper  table-mats, 
china  watchmen,  pink  and  gold  albums,  and  rainbow-bound 
little  books  on  the  different  tables. 

"Ah,  uncle,"  said  Mr.  Kitterbell,  "how  d'ye  do.>  Allow 
me — Jemima,  my  dear — my  uncle.  I  think  youVe  seen 
Jemima  before,  sir  t  " 

"  Have  had  the  pleasure^^''  returned  big  Dumps,  his  tone 
and  look  making  it  doubtful  whether  in  his  life  he  had  ever 
experienced  the  sensation. 

"I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Kitterbell,  with  a  languid  smile,  and 
a  slight  cough.  "  I'm  sure — hem — any  friend — of  Charles's 
—hem — much  less  a  relation,  is  " 

"  I  knew  you'd  say  so,  my  love,"  said  little  Kitterbell,  who, 
while  he  appeared  to  be  gazing  on  the  opposite  houses,  was 
looking  at  his  wife  with  a  most  affectionate  air :  "  Bless  you  !  " 
The  last  two  words  were  accompanied  with  a  simper,  and  a 
squeeze  of  the  hand,  which  stirred  up  all  Uncle  Dumps's  bile. 

"Jane,  tell  nurse  to  bring  down  baby,"  said  Mrs.  Kitter- 
bell, addressing  the  servant.  Mrs.  Kitterbell  was  a  tall,  thin 
young  lady,  with  very  light  hair,  and  a  particularly  white  face 
— one  of  those  young  women  who  almost  invariably,  though 
one  hardly  knows  why,  recall  to  one's  mind  the  idea  of  a  cold 
fillet  of  veal.    Out  went  the  servant,  and  in  came  the  nurse, 


8oo 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


with  a  remarkably  small  parcel  in  her  arms,  packed  up  in  a 
blue  mantle  trimmed  with  white  fur. — This  was  the  baby. 

"  Now,  uncle,"  said  Mr.  Kitterbell,  lifting  up  that  part  of 
the  mantle  which  covered  the  infant's  face,  with  an  air  of  great 
triumph,  "  Who  do  you  think  he's  like  " 

"  He  !  he  !  Yes,  who  ?  "  said  Mrs.  K.,  putting  her  arm 
through  her  husband's,  and  looking  up  into  Dumps's  face  with 
an  expression  of  as  much  interest  as  she  was  capable  of  dis- 
playing. 

"  Good  God,  how  small  he  is  !  cried  the  amiable  uncle, 
starting  back  with  well-feigned  surprise ;  "  remarkably  small 
indeed." 

'^Do  you  think  so?"  inquired  poor  little  Kitterbell,  rather 
alarmed.    "  He's  a  monster  to  what  he  was — ain't  he,  nurse  ?  " 

He's  a  dear,"  said  the  nurse,  squeezing  the  child,  and 
evading  the  question — not  because  she  scrupled  to  disguise 
the  fact,  but  because  she  couldn't  afford  to  throw  away  the 
chance  of  Dumps's  half-crown. 

Weil,  but  who  is  he  like  }  "  inquired  little  Kitterbell. 

Dumps  looked  at  the  little  pink  heap  before  him,  and  only 
thought  at  the  moment  of  the  best  mode  of  mortifying  the 
youthful  parents. 

^'^  I  really  don't  know  wka  he's  like,"  he  answered,  very 
well  knowing  the  reply  expected  of  him. 

"  Don't  you  think  he's  like  me  ?  "  inquired  his  nephew  with 
a  knowing  air. 

"  Oh,  decidedly  not  I  "  returned  Dumps,  with  an  emphasis 
not  to  be  misunderstood.  '^Decidedly  not  like  you. — Oh, 
certainly  not." 

"  Like  Jemima  ?  '^  asked  Kitterbell,  faintly. 

'•'^Oh,  dear  no;  not  in  the  least  I'm  no  judge,  of  course, 
in  such  eases  ;  but  I  really  think  he's  more  like  one  of  those 
little  carved  representations  that  one  sometimes  sees  blowing 
a  trumpet  on  a  tombstone  !  "  The  nurse  stooped  down  over 
the  child,  and  with  great  difficulty  prevented  an  explosion  of 
mirth.  Pa  and  ma  loeked  almost  as  miserable  as  their  amia- 
ble uncle. 

'^Welll"said  the  disappointed  little  father,  "you'll  be 
better  able  to  tell  what  he's  like  by  and  by.  You  shall  see 
liim  this  evening  with  his  mantle  off." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Dumps,  feeling  particularly  grateful. 

"  Now,  my  love,"  said  Kitterbell  to  his  wife,  "  it's  time  we 
were  off.    We're  to  meet  the  other  godfather  and  the  god- 


THE  BLOOMSBURY  CHRISTENING. 


Sol 


mother  at  the  church,  uncle, — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilson  from  over 
the  way — uncommonly  nice  people.    My  love,  are  you  wei! 
wrapped  up  ?  " 
Yes,  dear." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  won't  have  another  shawl  ?  "  inquired 
the  anxious  husband. 

"  No,  sweet,"  returned  the  charming  mother,  accepting 
Dumps's  proffered  arm ;  and  the  little  party  entered  the 
hackney-coach  that  was  to  take  them  to  the  church  ;  Dumps 
amusing  Mrs.  Kitterbeil  by  expatiating  largely  on  the  danger 
of  measles,  thrush,  teeth-cutting,  and  other  interesting  diseases 
to  which  children  are  subject. 

The  ceremony  (which  occupied  about  five  minutes)  passed 
off  without  anything  particular  occurring.  The  clergyman  had 
to  dine  some  distance  from  town,  and  had  two  churchings, 
three  christenings,  and  a  funeral  to  perform  in  something  less 
than  an  hour.  The  godfathers  and  godmother,  therefore^ 
promised  to  renounce  the  devil  and  all  his  works — and  all. 
that  sort  of  thing" — as  little  Kitterbeil  said — in  less  than 
no  time  and  with  the  exception  of  Dumps  nearly  letting  the 
child  fall  into  the  font  when  he  handed  it  to  the  clergyman^ 
the  whole  affair  went  off  in  the  usual  business-like  and  matter- 
of-course  manner,  and  Dumps  re-entered  the  Bank-gates  at 
two  o'clock  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  the  painful  conviction 
th^t  he  was  regularly  booked  for  an  evening  party. 

Evening  came — and  so  did  Dumps's  pumps,  black  silk 
stockings,  and  white  cravat  w^hich  he  had  ordered  to  be  for- 
w^arded,  per  boy,  from  Pentonville.  The  depressed  godfather 
dressed  himself  at  a  friend's  counting-house,  from  whence, 
with  his  spirits  fifty  degrees  below  proof,  he  sallied  forth — as 
the  weather  had  cleared  up,  and  the  evening  was  tolerably  fine 
■ — to  walk  to  Great  Russell-street-  Slowly  he  paced  up  Cheap- 
side,  Newgate-street,  down  Snow-hill,  and  up  Holborn  ditto, 
looking  as  grim  as  the  figure-head  of  a  man-of-war,  and  find- 
ing out  fresh  causes  of  misery  at  every  step.  As  he  was  cross- 
Sng  the  corner  of  Hatton-garden,  a.  man  apparently  intoxicated 
rushed  against  him,  and  would  have  knocked  him  down,  had 
he  not  been  providentially  caught  by  a  very  genteel  young  man, 
who  happened  to  be  close  to  him  at  the  time.  The  shock  so 
disarranged  Dumps's  nerves,  as  well  as  his  dress,  that  lie 
could  hardly  stand.  The  gentleman  took  his  arm,  and  in  the 
kindest  manner  walked  with  hhn  as  far  as  Furnival's  Inn, 
Dumps,  for  about  the  first  time  in  his  life,  felt  grateful  and 

SI 


8o2 


SKE  TCHES  B  V  BOZ. 


polite  ;  and  he  and  the  gentlemanly-looking  young  man  partdi 
with  mutual  expressions  of  good  will. 

There  are  at  least  some  well-disposed  men  in  the  world," 
ruminated  the  misanthropical  Dumps,  as  he  proceeded  to- 
wards His  destination. 

Rat — tat — ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-rat — knocked  a  hackney-coachman 
at  Kitterbell's  door,  in  imitation  of  a  gentleman's  servant, 
just  as  Dumps  reached  it ;  and  out  came  an  old  lady  in  a  large 
toque,  and  an  old  gentleman  in  a  blue  coat,  and  three  female 
copies  of  the  old  lady  in  pink  dresses,  and  shoes  to  match. 

It's  a  large  party,"  sighed  the  unhappy  godfather,  wiping 
the  perspiration  from  his  forehead,  and  leaning  against  the 
area-railings.  It  was  some  time  before  the  miserable  man 
could  muster  up  courage  to  knock  at  the  door,  and  when  he 
did,  the  smart  appearance  of  a  neighboring  greengrocer  (who 
had  been  hired  to  wait  for  seven  and  sixpence,  and  whose 
calves  alone  were  worth  double  the  money),  the  lamp  in  the 
passage,  and  the  Venus  on  the  landing,  added  to  the  hum  of 
many  voices,  and  the  sound  of  a  harp  and  two  violins,  pain« 
fully  convinced  him  that  his  surmises  were  but  too  well  founded. 

^'How  are  you.^"  said  little  Kitterbell,  in  a  greater  bustle 
than  ever,  bolting  out  of  the  little  back  parlor  with  a  corkscrew 
in  his  hand,  and  various  particles  of  sawdust,  looking  like  so 
many  inverted  commas,  on  his  inexpressibles. 

Good  God  !  "  said  Dumps,  turning  into  the  aforesaid 
parlor  to  put  his  shoes  on,  which  he  had  brought  in  his  coat- 
pocket,  and  still  more  appalled  by  the  sight  of  seven  fresh- 
drawn  corks,  and  a  corresponding  number  of  decanters. 
"  How  many  people  are  there  up  stairs  ? 

"  Oh,  not  above  thirty-five.  We've  had  the  carpet  taken  up 
in  the  back  drawing-room,  and  the  piano,  and  the  card-tables 
are  in  the  front.  Jemima  thought  we'd  better  have  a  regular 
sit-down  supper  in  the  front  parlor,  because  of  the  speechifying, 
and  all  that.  But,  Lord  !  uncle,  what's  the  matter  ?  "  contin- 
ued the  excited  little  man,  as  Dumps  stood  with  one  shoe  on, 
rummaging  his  pockets  with  the  most  frightful  distortion  of 
visage.      What  have  you  lost  ?    Your  pocket-book  ?  " 

No,"  returned  Dumps,  diving  first  into  one  pocket  and 
then  into  the  other,  and  speaking  in  a  voice  like  Desdemona 
with  the  pillow  over  her  mouth. 

"  Your  card-case  ?  snuff-box  the  key  of  your  lodgings  ?  " 
continued  Kitterbell,  pouring  question  on  question  with  the 
rapidity  of  lightning. 


THE  BLOOMSBURY  CHRlSTEiXlNG.  803 

No!  no!"  ejaculated  Dumps,  still  diving  eagerly^into 
his  empty  pocket. 

"  Not — not — the  7nug  you  spoke  of  this  morning  ?  " 

"Yes,  the  mug T''  replied  Dumps,  sinking  into  a  chair. 

"  How  could  you  have  done  it  ?  "  inquired  Kitterbell.  "  Are 
you  sure  you  brought  it  out  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  yes !  1  see  it  all  !  "  said  Dumps,  starting  up  as  the 
idea  flashed  across  his  mind  ;  miserable  dog  that  I  am — I 
w^as  born  to  suffer.  I  see  it  all  :  it  was  the  gentlemanly-look- 
ing young  man  !  " 

"  Mr.  Dumps !  "  shouted  the  greengrocer  in  a  stentorian 
voice,  as  he  ushered  the  somewhat  recovered  godfather  into 
the  drawing-room  half  an  hour  after  the  above  declaration. 
"  Mr.  Dumps  !  " — everybody  looked  at  the  door,  and  in<:ame 
Dumps,  feeling  about  as  much  out  of  place  as  a  salmon  might 
be  supposed  to  be  on  a  gravel-walk 

Happy  to  see  you  again,"  said  Mrs.  Kitterbell,  quite  un- 
conscious of  the  unfortunate  man^s  confusion  and  misery  ;  "  you 
must  allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  a  few  of  our  friends  : — my 
mama,  Mr.  Dumps — my  papa  and  sisters."  Dumps  seized 
the  hand  of  the  mother  as  warmly  as  if  she  was  his  own  pa- 
rent, bowed  to  the  young  ladies,  and  against  a  gentleman  be- 
hind him,  and  took  no  notice  whatever  of  the  father,  who  had 
been  bowing  incessantly  for  three  minutes  and  a  quarter. 

Uncle,"  said  little  Kitterbell,  after  Dumps  had  been  in- 
troduced to  a  select  dozen  or  two,  "  you  must  let  me  lead  you 
to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  to  introduce  you  to  my  friend 
Danton.  Such  a  splendid  fellow ! — I'm  sure  you'll  like  him 
— this  way," — Dumps  followed  as  tractably  as  a  tame  bear. 

Mr.  Danton  was  a  young  man  of  about  five-and-twenty, 
with  a  considerable  stock  of  impudence,  and  a  very  small 
share  of  ideas  :  he  was  a  great  favorite,  especially  with  young 
ladies  of  from  sixteen  to  twenty-six  years  of  age,  both  inclusive. 
He  could  imitate  the  French-horn  to  admiration,  sang  comic 
songs  most  inimitably,  and  had  the  most  insinuating  way  of 
saying  impertinent  nothings  to  his  doting  female  admirers.  He 
had  acquired,  somehow  or  other,  the  reputation  of  being  a  great 
wit,  and,  accordingly,  whenever  he  opened  his  mouth,  every- 
body who  knew  him  laughed  very  heartily. 

The  introduction  took  place  in  due  form.  Mr.  Danton 
bowed,  and  twirled  a  lady's  handkerchief,  wljjich  he  held  in 
his  hand,  in  a  most  comic  way.    Everybody  smiled. 


8©4 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


Very  warm,"  said  Dumps,  feeling  it  necessary  to  say 
something. 

^' Yes.  It  was  warmer  yesterday,"  returned  the  brilliant 
Mr.  Danton. — A  general  laugh. 

"  I  have  great  pleasure  in  congratulating  you  on  your 
first  appearance  in  the  character  of  a  father,  sir,"  he  continue*], 
addressing  Dumps — "  godfather,  I  mean." — The  young  ladies 
were  convulsed,  and  the  gentleman  in  ecstasies. 

A  general  hum  of  admiration  interrupted  the  conversation, 
and  announced  the  entrance  of  nurse  with  the  baby  An 
universal  rush  of  the  young  ladies  mimediately  took  place. 
(Girls  are  always  so  fond  of  babies  in  company.) 

"  Oh,  you  dear !  "  said  one. 

"  How  sweet !  "  cried  another,  in  a  low  tone  of  most  en- 
thusiastic admiration. 

"  Heavenly  !  "  added  a  third. 

"  Oh  !  what  dear  little  arms  !  "  said  a  fourth,  holding  up  an 
arm  and  fist  about  the  size  and  shape  of  the  leg  of  a  fowl 
cleanly  picked. 

"  Did  you  ever  !  " — said  a  little  coquette  with  a  large 
bustle,  who  looked  like  a  French  lithograph,  appealing  to  a 
gentleman  in  three  waistcoats — "  Did  you  ever  !  " 

"  Never,  in  my  life,"  returned  her  admirer,  pulling  up  his 
collar. 

"Oh  !  do  let  me  take  it,  nurse,"  cried  another  young  lady. 
"The  love  !  " 

"  Can  it  open  its  eyes,  nurse  ?  "inquired  another,  affecting 
the  utmost  innocence. — Suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  single  ladies 
unanimously  voted  him  an  angel,  and  that  the  married  ones, 
nem.  cojt,^  agreed  that  he  was  decidedly  the  finest  baby  they 
had  ever  beheld — except  their  own. 

The  quadrilles  were  resumed  with  great  spirit  Mr.  Danton 
was  universally  admitted  to  be  beyond  himself ;  several  young 
ladies  enchanted  the  company  and  gained  admirers,  by  sing- 
ing "  We  met  " — "  I  saw  her  at  the  Fancy  Fair  " — and  other 
equally  sentimental  and  interesting  ballads.  "  The  young 
men,"  as  Mrs.  Kitterbell  said,  "made  themselves  very  agree- 
able ; "  the  girls  did  not  lose  their  opportunity ;  and  the 
evening  promised  to  go  off  excellently.  Dumps  didn't  mind 
it :  he  had  devised  a  plan  for  himself — a  little  bit  of  fun  in 
his  own  way-^and  he  was  almost  happy !  He  played  a 
rubber  and  lost  every  point.  Mr.  Danton  said  he  could  not 
have  lost  every  point,  because  he  made  a  point  of  losing : 


THE  BLOOMSBURY  CHRISTENING, 


805 


everybody  laughed  tremendously.  Dumps  retorted  with  a 
better  joke,  and  nobody  smiled,  with  the  exception  of  the 
host,  who  seemed  to  consider  it  his  duty  to  laugh  till  he 
was  black  in  the  face,  at  everything.  There  was  only  one 
drawback — the  musicians  did  not  play  with  quite  as  much 
spirit  as  could  have  been  wished. — The  cause,  however,  was 
satisfactorily  explained ;  for  it  appeared,  on  the  testimony  of 
a  gentleman  who  had  come  up  from  Gravesend  in  the  after- 
noon, that  they  had  been  engaged  on  board  a  steamer  all 
day,  and  had  played  almost  without  cessation  all  the  way  to 
Gravesend,  and  all  the  way  back  again. 

The  "sit-down  supper ''was  excellent;  there  were  four 
barley-sugar  temples  on  the  table,  which  would  have  looked 
beautiful  if  they  had  not  melted  away  when  the  supper  began  \ 
and  a  water-mill,  whose  only  fault  was  that  instead  of  going 
round,  it  ran  over  the  table-cloth.  Then  there  were  fowls, 
and  tongue,  ajd  trifle,  and  sweets,  and  lobster  salad,  and 
potted  beef — and  everything.  And  little  Kitterbell  kept  call- 
ing out  for  clean  plates,  and  the  clean  plates  did  not  come  : 
and  then  the  gentlemen  who  wanted  the  plates  said  they  didn't 
mind,  they'd  take  a  lady's  ;  and  then  Mrs.  Kitterbell  applauded 
their  gallantry,  and  the  greengrocer  ran  about  till  he  thought 
his  seven  and  sixpence  was  very  hardly  earned ;  and  the 
young  ladies  didn't  eat  much  for  fear  it  shouldn't  look 
romantic,  and  the  married  ladies  eat  as  much  as  possible,  for 
fear  they  shouldn't  have  enough;  and  a  great  deal  of  wine 
was  drunk,  and  everybody  talked  and  laughed  considerably. 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  "  said  Mr.  Kitterbell,  rising  and  looking 
very  important.  "  My  love  (this  was  addressed  to  his  wife  at 
the  other  end  of  the  table),  take  care  of  Mrs.  Maxwell,  and 
your  mamma,  and  the  rest  of  the  married  ladies  ;  the  gentle- 
men will  persuade  the  young  ladies  to  fill  their  glasses,  I  am 
sure." 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  long  Dumps,  in  a  very 
sepulchral  voice  and  rueful  accent,  rising  from  his  chair  like 
the  ghost  in  Don  Juan,  "  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  charge 
your  glasses      I  am  desirous  of  proposing  a  toast." 

"A  dead  silence  ensued,and  the  glasses  were  filled — every- 
body looked  serious. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  slowly  continued  the  ominous 
Dumps,  "  I  " — (here  Mr.  Danton  imitated  two  notes  from  the 
French-horn,  in  a  very  loud  key,  which  electrified  the  nervous 
toast-proposer,  and  convulsed  his  audience). 


8o6 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


"  Order !  order ! "  said  little  Kitterbell,  endeavoring  ta 
suppress  his  laughter. 

"  Order  !  "  said  the  gentlemen. 
Danton,  be  quiet/'  said  a  particular  friend  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  table. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  resumed  Dumps,  somewhat  re 
covered,  and  not  much  disconcerted,  for  he  was  always  a 
pretty  good  hand  at  a  speech — "  In  accordance  with  what  is. 
I  believe,  the  established  usage  on  these  occasions,  I,  as  one 
of  the  godfathers  of  Master  Frederick  Charles  William  Kitter- 
bell— (here  the  speaker's  voice  faltered,  for  he  remembered 
the  mug) — venture  to  rise  to  propose  a  toast.  I  need  hardly 
say  that  it  is  the  health  and  prosperity  of  that  young  gentle- 
man, the  particular  event  of  whose  early  life  we  are  here  met 
to  celebrate — (applause).  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  it  is  im- 
possible to  suppose  that  our  friends  here,  whose  sincere  well- 
wishers  we  all  are,  can  pass  through  life  without  some  trials, 
considerable  suffering,  severe  affliction,  and  heavy  losses  !  " — 
Here  the  arch-traitor  paused,  and  slowly  drew  forth  a  long, 
white  pocket-handkerchief — his  example  was  followed  by 
several  ladies.  ^'That  these  trials  may  be  long  spared  them 
is  my  most  earnest  prayer,  my  most  fervent  wish  (a  distinct 
sob  from  the  grandmother).  I  hope  and  trust,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  that  the  infant  whose  christening  we  have  this  even- 
ing met  to  celebrate,  may  not  be  removed  from  the  arms  of 
his  parents  by  premature  decay  (several  cambrics  were  in 
requisition)  :  that  his  young  and  now  apparently  healthy  form, 
may  not  be  wasted  by  lingering  disease.  (Here  Dumps  cast 
a  sardonic  glance  around,  for  a  great  sensation  was  manifest 
among  the  married  ladies.)  You,  1  am  sure,  will  concur  with 
me  in  wishing  that  he  may  live  to  be  a  comfort  and  a  blessing 
to  his  parents.  (*  Hear,  hear  !  '  and  an  audible  sob  from  Mr. 
Kitterbell.)  But  should  he  not  be  what  we  could  wish 
— should  he  forget  in  after  times  the  duty  which  he  owes  to 
them — should  they  unhappily  experience  that  distracting  truth, 
*  how  sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth  it  is  to  have  a  thankless 
child.'  " — Here  Mrs.  Kitterbell,  with  her  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes,  and  accompanied  by  several  ladies  rushed  from  the  room, 
and  went  into  violent  hysterics  in  the  passage,  leaving  her 
better  half  in  almost  as  bad  a  condition,  and  a  general 
impression  in  Dumps's  favor ;  for  people  like  sentiment,  aftet 
all. 

It  need  hardly  be  added,  that  this  occurrence  quite  put  i 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  DEA  TH. 


Stop  to  the  harmony  of  the  evening.  Vinegar,  hartshorn,  and 
cold  water,  were  now  as  much  in  request  as  negus,  rout-cakes, 
and  bon-bons  had  been  a  short  time  before.  Mrs.  Kitterbell 
was  immediately  conveyed  to  her  apartment,  the  musicians 
were  silenced,  flirting  ceased,  and  the  company  slowly  de- 
parted. Dumps  left  the  house  at  the  commencement  of  the 
bustle,  and  walked  home  with  a  light  step,  and  (for  him)  a 
cheerful  heart.  His  landlady,  who  slept  in  the  next  room,  has 
offered  to  make  oath  that  she  heard  him  laugh,  in  his  peculiar 
manner,  after  he  had  locked  his  door.  The  assertion,  how- 
ever, is  so  improbable,  and  bears  on  the  face  of  it  such  strong 
evidences  of  untruth,  that  it  has  never  obtained  credence  to 
this  hour. 

The  family  of  Mr.  Kitterbell  has  considerably  increased 
since  the  period  to  which  we  have  referred ;  he  has  now  two 
sons  and  a  daughter ;  and  as  he  expects,  at  no  distant  period, 
to  have  another  addition  to  his  blooming  progeny,  he  is 
anxious  to  secure  an  eligible  godfather  for  the  occasion.  He 
is  determined,  however,  to  impose  upon  him  two  conditions. 
He  must  bind  himself,  by  a  solemn  obligation,  not  to  make 
any  speech  after  supper  ;  and  it  is  indispensable  that  he  should 
be  in  no  way  connected  with  "  the  most  miserable  man  in  the 
world/' 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

THE    drunkard's  DEATH, 

We  will  be  bold  to  say,  that  there  is  scarcely  a  man  in  the 
constant  habit  of  walking,  day  after  day,  through  any  of  the 
crowded  thoroughfares  of  London,  who  cannot  recollect  among 
the  people  whom  he  knows  by  sight,"  to  use  a  familiar  phrase, 
some  being  of  abject  and  wretched  appearance  whom  he  re- 
members to  have  seen  in  a  very  different  condition,  whom  he 
has  observed  sinking  lower  and  lower,  by  almost  imperceptible 
degrees,  and  the  shabbiness  and  utter  destitution  of  whose 
appearance,  at  last,  strike  forcibly  and  painfully  upon  him,  as 
he  passes  by.  Is  there  any  man  who  has  mixed  tnuch  with 
society,  or  whose  avocations  have  caused  him  to  mingle,  at  one 
time  or  other,  with  a  great  number  of  people,  who  cannot  call 


8o8 


SKE  TCHES  B  V  BOZ. 


to  mind  the  time  when  some  shabby,  miserable  wretch,  in  raga 
and  filth,  who  shuffles  past  him  now  in  all  the  squalor  of 
disease  and  poverty,  was  a  respectable  tradesman,  or  clerk,  or 
a  man  following  some  thriving  pursuit,  with  good  prospects, 
and  decent  means  ? — or  cannot  any  of  our  readers  call  to  mind 
from  amongst  the  list  of  their  quondam  acquaintance,  some 
fallen  and  degraded  man,  who  lingers  about  the  pavement  in 
hungry  misery — from  whom  every  one  turns  coldly  away,  and 
who  preserves  himself  from  sheer  starvation,  nobody  knows 
how  ?  Alas  !  such  cases  are  of  too  frequent  occurrence  to  be 
rare  items  in  any  man's  experience ;  and  but  too  often  arise 
from  one  cause — drunkenness — that  fierce  rage  for  the  slow, 
sure  poison,  that  oversteps  every  other  consideration  :  that 
casts  aside  wife,  children,  friends,  happiness,  and  station  ; 
and  hurries  its  victims  madly  on  to  degradation  and  death. 

Some  of  these  men  have  been  impelled,  by  misfortune  and 
misery,  to  the  vice  that  has  degraded  them.  The  ruin  of 
worldly  expectations,  the  death  of  those  they  loved,  the  sor- 
row that  slowly  consumes,  but  will  not  break  the  heart,  has 
driven  them  wild  ;  and  they  present  the  hideous  spectacle  of 
madmen,  slowly  dying  by  their  own  hands.  But  by  far  the 
greater  part  have  wilfully,  and  with  open  eyes,  plunged  into 
the  gulf  from  which  the  man  who  once  enters  it  never  rises 
more,  but  into  which  he  sinks  deeper  and  deeper  down,  until 
recovery  is  hopeless. 

Such  a  man  as  this  once  stood  by  the  bedside  of  his  dying 
wife,  while  his  children  knelt  around,  and  mingled  low  bursts 
of  grief  with  their  innocent  prayers.  The  room  was  scantily 
and  meanly  furnished  and  it  needed  but  a  glance  at  the  pale 
form  from  which  the  light  of  life  was  fast  passing  away,  to 
know  that  grief,  and  want,  and  anxious  care,  had  been  busy  at 
the  heart  for  many  a  weary  year.  An  elderly  woman,  with  her 
face  bathed  in  tears,  was  supporting  the  head  of  the  dying 
woman — her  daughter — on  her  arm.  But  it  was  not  towards 
her  that  the  wan  face  was  turned  ;  it  was  not  her  hand  that  the 
cold  and  trembling  fingers  clasped  ;  they  pressed  the  husband's 
arm  ;  the  eyes  so  soon  to  be  closed  in  death  rested  on  his 
face,  and  the  man  shook  beneath  their  gaze.  His  dress  was 
slovenly  and  disordered,  his  face  inflamed,  his  eyes  bloodshot 
and  heavy.  He  had  been  summoned  from  some  wild  debauch 
to  the  bed  of  sorrow  and  death. 

A  shaded  lamp  by  the  bed-side  cast  a  dim  light  on  the 
figures  around,  and  left  the  remainder  of  the  room  in  thick, 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  DEATH, 


809 


deep  shadow.  The  silence  of  night  prevailed  without  the 
house,  and  the  stillness  of  death  was  in  the  chamber.  A 
watch  hung  over  the  mantel-shelf  ;  its  low  ticking  was  the  only 
sound  that  broke  the  profound  quiet,  but  it  was  a  solemn  one, 
for  well  they  knew,  who  heard  it,  that  before  it  had  recorded 
the  passing  of  another  hour,  it  would  beat  the  knell  of  a 
departed  spirit. 

It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  wait  and  watch  for  the  approach  of 
dejith  ;  to  know  that  hope  is  gone,  and  recovery  impossible ; 
and  to  sit  and  count  the  dreary  hours  through  long,  long 
nights — such  nights  as  only  watchers  by  the  bed  of  sickness 
know.  It  chills  the  blood  to  hear  the  dearest  secrets  of  the 
heart — the  pent-up,  hidden  secrets  of  many  years — -poured 
forth  by  the  unconscious  helpless  being  before  you,  and  to 
think  how  little  the  reserve  and  cunning  of  a  whole  life  will 
avail,  when  fever  and  delirium  tear  off  the  mask  at  last. 
Strange  tales  have  been  told  in  the  wanderings  of  dying  men ; 
tales  so  full  of  guilt  and  crime,  that  those  who  stood  by  the 
sick  person's  couch  have  fled  in  horror  and  affright,  lest  they 
should  be  scared  to  madness  by  what  they  heard  and  saw; 
and  many  a  wretch  has  died  alone,  raving  of  deeds  the  very 
name  of  which  has  driven  the  boldest  man  away. 

But  no  such  ravings  were  to  be  heard  at  the  bedside  by 
which  the  children  knelt.  Their  half-stifled  sobs  and  moan- 
ings  alone  broke  the  silence  of  the  lonely  chamber.  And 
when  at  last  the  mother's  grasp  relaxed,  and,  turning  one  look 
from  the  children  to  the  father,  she  vainly  strove  to  speak, 
and  fell  backward  on  the  pillow,  all  was  so  calm  and  tranquil 
that  she  seemed  to  sink  to  sleep.  They  leaned  over  her  ; 
they  called  upon  her  name,  softly  at  first,  and  then  in  the  loud 
and  piercing  tones  of  desperation.  But  there  was  no  reply. 
They  listened  for  her  breath,  but  no  sound  came.  They  felt 
for  the  palpitation  of  the  heart,  but  no  faint  throb  responded 
to  the  touch.    That  heart  was  broken,  and  she  was  dead ! 

The  husband  sunk  into  a  chair  by  the  bedside,  and  clasped 
his  hands  upon  his  burning  forehead.  He  gazed  from  child 
to  child,  but  when  a  weeping  eye  met  his,  he  quailed  beneath 
its  look.  No  word  of  comfort  was  whispered  in  his  ear,  no 
look  of  kindness  lighted  on  his  face.  All  shrunk  from  and 
avoided  him  ;  and  when  at  last  he  staggered  from  the  room, 
no  one  sought  to  follow  or  console  the  widower. 

The  time  had  been  when  many  a  friend  would  have 
crowded  round  him  in  his  affliction,  and  many  a  heartfelt 


8io 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


condolence  would  have  met  him  in  his  grief.  Where  were 
they  now?  One  by  one,  friends,  relations,  the  common  ac- 
quaintance even,  had  fallen  off  from  and  deserted  the  drunk- 
ard. His  wife  alone  had  clung  to  him  in  good  and  evil,  in 
sickness  and  poverty ;  and  how  had  he  rewarded  her  ?  He 
had  reeled  from  the  tavern  to  her  bedside  in  time  to  see 
her  die. 

He  rushed  from  the  house,  and  walked  swiftly  through  the 
streets.  Remorse,  fear,  shame,  all  crowded  on  his  mind. 
Stupefied  with  drink,  and  bewildered  with  the  scene  he  had 
just  witnessed,  he  re-entered  the  tavern  he  had  quitted  shortly 
before.  Glass  succeeded  glass.  His  blood  mounted,  and  his 
brain  whirled  round.  Death  !  Everyone  must  die,  and  why 
not  she.  She  was  too  good  for  him  ;  her  relations  had  often 
told  him  so.  Curses  on  them!  Had  they. not  deserted  her, 
and  left  her  to  whine  away  the  time  at  home  ?  Well — she  was 
dead,  and  happy  perhaps.  It  was  better  as  it  was.  Another 
glass — one  more  !  Hurrah !  It  was  a  merry  life  while  it 
lasted ;  and  he  would  make  the  most  of  it. 

Time  w^ent  on ;  the  three  children  who  were  left  to  him, 
grew  up,  and  were  children  no  longer.  The  father  remained 
the  same — poorer,  shabbier,  and  more  dissolute-looking,  but 
the  same  confirmed  and  irreclaimable  drunkard.  The  boys 
had  long  ago  run  wild  in  the  streets,  and  left  him ;  the  girl 
alone  remained,  but  she  worked  hard,  and  words  or  blows 
could  always  procure  him  something  for  the  tavern.  So  he 
went  on  in  the  old  course,  and  a  merry  life  he  led. 

One  night,  as  early  as  ten  o'clock — for  the  girl  had  been 
sick  for  many  days,  and  there  was,  consequently,  little  to 
spend  at  the  public  house — he  bent  his  steps  homeward,  be- 
thinking himself  that  if  he  would  have  her  able  to  earn  money, 
it  would  be  as  well  to  apply  to  the  parish  surgeon,  or,  at  all 
events,  to  take  the  trouble  of  inquiring  what  ailed  her,  which 
he  had  not  yet  thought  it  worth  while  to  do.  It  was  a  wet 
December  night ;  the  wind  blew  piercing  cold,  and  the  rain 
poured  heavily  down.  He  begged  a  few  halfpence  from  a 
passer-by,  and  having  bought  a  small  loaf  (for  it  was  his  in- 
terest to  keep  the  girl  alive,  if  he  could),  he  shuffled  onwards 
as  fast  as  the  wind  and  rain  would  let  him. 

At  the  back  of  Fleet  street,  and  lying  between  it  and  the 
water  side,  are  several  mean  and  narrow  courts,  which  form  a 
portion  of  Whitefriars ;  it  was  to  one  of  these  that  he  directed 
his  steps. 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  DEATH. 


8ll 


/  The  alley  into  which  he  turned,  might,  for  filth  and  misery, 
have  competed  with  the  darkest  corner  of  this  ancient  sanctu- 
ary in  its  dirtiest  and  most  lawless  time.  The  houses,  varying 
from  two  stories  in  height  to  four,  were  stained  with  every 
indescribable  hue  that  long  exposure  to  the  weather,  damp,  and 
rottenness  can  impart  to  tenements  composed  originally  of  the 
roughest  and  coarsest  materials.  The  windows  were  patched 
with  paper,  and  stuffed  with  the  foulest  rags  ;  the  doors  were 
falling  from  their  hinges;  poles  with  lines  on  which  to  dry 
clothes,  projected  from  every  casement,  and  sounds  of  quar- 
relling or  drunkenness  issued  from  every  room. 

The  solitary  oil  lamp  in  the  centre  of  the  court  had  been 
blown  out,  either  by  the  violence  of  the  wind  or  the  act  of  some 
inhabitant  who  had  excellent  reasons  for  objecting  to  his  resi- 
dence being  rendered  too  conspicuous  ;  and  the  only  light  which 
fell  upon  the  broken  and  uneven  pavement,  was  derived  from 
the  miserable  candles  that  here  and  there  twinkled  in  the 
rooms  of  such  of  the  more  fortunate  residents  as  could  afford 
to  indulge  in  so  expensive  a  luxury.  A  gutter  ran  down  the 
center  of  the  alley — all  the  sluggish  odors  of  which  had  been 
called  forth  by  the  rain  ;  and  as  the  wind  whistled  through  the 
old  houses,  the  doors  and  shutters  creaked  upon  their  hinges, 
and  the  windows  shook  in  their  frames,  with  a  violence  which 
every  moment  seemed  to  threaten  the  destruction  of  the 
whole  place. 

The  man  whom  we  Iiave  followed  into  this  den,  walked  on 
in  the  darkness,  sometimes  stumbling  into  the  main  gutter, 
and  at  others  into  some  branch  repositories  of  garbage  which 
had  been  formed  by  the  rain,  until  he  reached  the  last  house 
in  the  court.  The  door,  or  rather  what  was  left  of  it,  stood 
ajar,  for  the  convenience  of  the  numerous  lodgers  ;  and  he 
proceeded  to  grope  his  way  up  the  old  and  broken  stair,  to  the 
attic  story. 

He  was  within  a  step  or  two  of  his  room  door,  when  it 
opened,  and  a  girl,  whose  miserable  and  emaciated  appear- 
ance was  only  to  be  equalled  by  that  of  the  candle  which  she 
shaded  with  her  hand,  peeped  anxiously  out. 

"  Is  that  you,  father?  "  said  the  girl. 

"  Who  else  should  it  be  1 "  replied  the  man  gruffly.  "  What 
are  you  trembling  at?  It's  little  enough  that  I've  had  to 
drink  to-day,  for  there's  no  drink  without  money,  and  no 
money  without  work.  What  the  devil's  the  matter  with  the 
girl  ?  " 


8l2 


SKE  TCHES  B  Y  BOZ, 


I  am  not  well,  father — not  at  all  well/^  said  the  girl, 
bursting  into  tears. 

Ah !  replied  the  man,  in  the  tone  of  a  person  who  is 
compelled  to  admit  a  very  unpleasant  fact,  to  which  he  would 
rather  remain  blind,  if  he  could.  "  You  must  get  better  some- 
how, for  we  must  have  money.  You  must  go  to  the  parish 
doctor,  and  make  him  give  you  some  medicine.  They're  paid 
for  it,  damn  'em.  What  are  you  standing  before  the  door  for  \ 
Let  me  come  in,  can't  you  ?  " 

Father,"  whispered  the  girl,  shutting  the  door  behind 
her,  and  placing  herself  before  it,    William  has  come  back." 

^'  Who !  "  said  the  man  with  a  start. 
Hush,"  replied  the  girl,    William  ;  brother  William." 

"  And  what  does  he  want  ?  "  said  the  man,  with  an  effort 
at  composure — "  money  ?  meat  ?  drink  ?  He's  come  to  the 
wrong  shop  for  that,  if  he  does.  Give  me  the  candle — give 
me  the  candle,  fool — I  ain't  going  to  hurt  him."  He  snatched 
the  candle  from  her  hand,  and  walked  into  the  room. 

Sitting  on  an  old  box,  with  his  head  resting  on  his  hand, 
and  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  wretched  cinder  fire  that  was  smoul- 
dering on  the  hearth,  was  a  young  man  of  about  two-and- 
twenty,  miserably  clad  in  an  old  coarse  jacket  and  trousers. 
He  started  up  when  his  father  entered. 

Fasten  the  door  Mary,"  said  the  young  man  hastily — 
Fasten  the  door.     You  look  as  if  you  didn't  know  me, 
father.    It's  long  enough,  since  you  drove  me  from  home  ;  you 
may  well  forget  me." 

"  And  what  do  you  want  here,  now  ?  "  said  the  father, 
seating  himself  on  a  stool,  on  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace. 
*'What  do  you  want  here,  now?  " 

Shelter,"  replied  the  son,  Fm  in  trouble  :  that's  enough. 
If  Fm  caught  I  shall  swing  ;  that's  certain.  Caught  I  shall  be, 
unless  I  stop  here  ;  that's  as  certain.    And  there's  an  end  of  it." 

You  mean  to  say,  you've  been  robbing,  or  murdering, 
then  ?  "  said  the  father. 

"Yes  I  do,"  replied  the  son.  "Does  it  surprise  you, 
father  ?  "  He  looked  steadily  in  the  man's  face,  but  he  with 
drew  his  eyes,  and  bent  them  on  the  ground. 

"  Where's  your  brothers  ? "  he  said  after  a  long  pause. 

"  Where  they'll  never  trouble  you,"  replied  his  son 
"  John's  gone  to  America,  and  Henry's  dead." 

"  Dead  !  "  said  the  father,  with  a  shudder,  which  even  h< 
could  not  repress. 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  DEATH. 


813 


"  Dead/^  replied  the  young  man.  He  died  in  my  arm — • 
shot  like  a  dog,  by  a  gamekeeper.  He  staggered  back,  I 
caught  him,  and  his  blood  trickled  down  my  hands.  It  poured 
out  from  his  side  like  water.  He  was  weak,  and  it  blinded 
him,  but  he' threw  himself  down  on  his  knees,  on  the  grass, 
and  prayed  to  God,  that  if  his  mother  was  in  Heaven,  He 
would  hear  her  prayers  for  pardon  for  her  youngest  son.  ^  I 
was  her  favorite  boy.  Will,'  he  said,  ^  and  I  am  glad  to  think, 
now,  that  when  she  was  dying,  though  I  was  a  very  young 
child  then,  and  my  little  heart  was  almost  bursting,  I  knelt 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  thanked  God  for  having 
made  me  so  fond  of  her  as  to  have  never  once  done  anything 
to  bring  the  tears  into  her  eye-s.  O  Will,  why  was  she  taken 
away,  and  father  left  ? '  There's  his  dying  v/ords,  father," 
said  the  young  man  ;  make  the  best  you  can  of  'em.  You 
struck  him  across  the  face,  in  a  drunken  fit,  the  morning  we 
ran  away  ;  and  here's  the  end  of  it." 

The  girl  wept  aloud  ;  and  the  father,  sinking  his  head  upon 
his  knees,  rocked  himself  to  and  fro. 

"  If  I  am  taken,"  said  the  young  man,  "  I  shall  be  carried 
back  into  the  country,  and  hung  for  that  man's  murder.  They 
cannot  trace  me  here,  without  your  assistance,  father.  For 
aught  I  know,  you  may  give  me  up  to  justice  ;  but  unless 
you  do,  here  I  stop,  until  I  can  venture  to  escape  abroad." 

For  two  whole  days,  all  three  remained  in  the  wretched 
room,  without  stirring  out.  On  the  third  evening,  however, 
the  girl  was  worse  than  she  had  been  yet,  and  the  few 
scraps  of  food  they  had  were  gone.  It  was  indispensably 
necessary  that  somebody  should  go  out ;  and  as  the  girl  was 
too  weak  and  ill,  the  father  went  just  at  nightfall. 

He  got  some  medicine  for  the  girl,  and  a  trifle  in  the  way 
of  pecuniary  assistance.  On  his  way  back,  he  earned  six- 
pence by  holding  a  horse ;  and  he  turned  homewards  with 
enough  money  to  supply  their  most  pressing  wants  for  two  or 
three  days  to  come.  He  had  to  pass  the  public-house.  He 
lingered  for  an  instant,  walked  past  it,  turned  back  again, 
lingered  once  more,  and  finally  slunk  in.  Two  men  whom  he 
had  not  observed,  were  on  the  watch.  They  were  on  the 
point  of  giving  up  their  search  in  despair,  when  his  loitering 
attracted  their  attention  ;  and  when  he  entered  the  public- 
house,  they  followed  him. 

"  You'll  drink  with  me,  master,"  said  one  of  them,  proffer- 
ing him  a  glass  of  liquor 


8i4 


SKE rCHES  BY  BOZ. 


"  And  me  too/'  said  the  other,  replenishing  the  glass  as 
soon  as  it  was  drained  of  its  contents. 

The  man  thought  of  his  hungry  children,  and  his  son's 
danger.  But  they  were  nothing  to  the  drunkard.  He  did 
drink  ;  and  his  reason  left  him. 

"  A  wet  night,  Warden,"  whispered  one  of  the  men  in  his 
ear,  as  he  at  length  turned  to  go  away,  after  spending  in 
liquor  one-half  the  money  on  which,  perhaps,  his  daughter's 
life  depended. 

^'  The  right  sort  of  night  for  our  friends  in  hiding.  Master 
Warden,"  whispered  the  other. 

Sit  down  here,"  said  the  one  who  had  spoken  first,  draw- 
ing him  into  a  corner.  "  We  have  been  looking  arter  the 
young  un.  We  came  to  tell  him,  it's  all  right  now,  but  we 
couldn't  find  him,  'cause  we  hadn't  got  the  precise  direction. 
But  that  ain't  strange,  for  I  don't  think  he  know'd  it  himself, 
when  he  came  to  London,  did  he  ? " 

"  No,  he  didn't,"  replied  the  father. 

The  two  men  exchanged  glances. 
There's  a  vessel  down  at  the  docks,  to  sail  at  midnight, 
when  it's  high  water,"  resumed  the  first  speaker,  and  we'll 
put  him  on  board.  His  passage  is  taken  in  another  name, 
and  what's  better  than  that,  it's  paid  for.  It's  lucky  we  met 
you." 

Very,"  said  the  second. 
"  Capital  luck,"  said  the  first,  with  a  wink  to  his  com- 
panion. 

Great,"  replied  the  second,  with  a  slight  nod  of  intelli- 
gence. 

"  Another  glass  here  ;  quick " — said  the  first  speaker. 
And  in  five  minutes  more,  the  father  had  unconsciously 
yielded  up  his  own  son  into  the  hangman's  hands. 

Slowly  and  heavily  the  time  dragged  along,  as  the  brother 
and  sister,  in  their  miserable  hiding-place,  listened  in  anxious 
suspense  to  the  slightest  sound.  At  length,  a  heavy  footstep 
was  heard  upon  the  stair ,  it  approached  nearer ;  it  reached 
the  landing ;  and  the  father  staggered  into  the  room. 

The  girl  saw  that  he  was  intoxicated,  and  advanced  with 
the  candle  in  her  hands  to  meet  him  ;  she  stopped  short,  gave 
a  loud  scream,  and  fell  senseless  on  the  ground.  She  had 
caught  sight  of  the  shadow  of  a  man  reflected  on  the  floor. 
They  both  rushed  in,  and  in  another  instant  the  young  man 
was  a  prisoner,  and  handcuffed. 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  DEATH. 


"  Very  quietly  done,"  said  one  of  the  men  to  his  con^an- 
ion,  "  thanks  to  the  old  man.  Lift  up  the  girl,  Tom — come, 
come,  it's  no  use  crying,  young  woman.  It's  all  over  now. 
and  can't  be  helped." 

The  young  man  stooped  for  an  instant  over  the  girl,  and 
then  turned  fiercely  round  upon  his  father,  who  had  reeled 
against  the  wall,  and  was  gazing  on  the  group  with  drunken 
stupidity. 

Listen  to  me,  father,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  made  the 
drunkard's  flesh  creep.  "  My  brother's  blood,  and  mine, 
on  your  head  :  I  never  had  kind  look,  or  word,  or  care  trout 
you,  and  alive  or  dead,  I  never  will  forgive  you.  Die  when 
you  will,  or  how,  I  will  be  with  you.  I  speak  as  a  dead  man 
now,  and  I  warn  you,  father,  that  as  surely  as  you  must  one 
day  stand  before  your  Maker,  so  surely  shall  your  children  be 
there,  hand  in  hand,  to  cry  for  judgment  against  you."  He 
raised  his  manacled  hands  in  a  threatening  attitude,  fixed  his 
eyes  on  his  shrinking  parent,  and  slowly  left  the  room  ;-and 
neither  father  nor  sister  ever  beheld  him  more  on  this  side 
of  the  grave. 

When  the  dim  and  misty  light  of  a  winter's  morning  pen- 
etrated into  the  narrow  court,  and  struggled  through  the 
begrimed  window  of  the  wretched  room,  Warden  awoke  from 
his  heavy  sleep,  and  found  himself  alone.  He  rose,  and 
looked  round  him  ;  the  old  flock  mattress  on  the  floor  was 
undisturbed  ;  everything  was  just  as  he  had  remembered  to 
have  seen  it  last  ;  and  there  were  no  signs  of  any  one,  save 
himself,  having  occupied  the  room  during  the  night.  He  in- 
quired of  the  other  lodgers,  and  of  the  neighbors ;  but  his 
daughter  had  not  been  seen  or  heard  of.  He  rambled 
through  the  streets,  and  scrutinized  each  wretched  face  among 
the  crowds  that  thronged  them,  with  anxious  eyes.  But  his 
search  was  fruitless,  and  he  returned  to  his  garret  when  night 
came  on,  desolate  and  weary. 

For  many  days  he  occupied  himself  in  the  same  manner, 
but  no  trace  of  his  daughter  did  he  meet  with,  and  no  w^ord 
of  her  reached  his  ears.  At  length  he  gave  up  the  pursuit  as 
hopeless.  He  had  long  thought  of  the  probability  of  her 
leaving  him,  and  endeavoring  to  gain  her  bread  in  quiet,  else- 
where. She  had  left  him  at  last  to  starve  alone.  He  ground 
his  teeth,  and  cursed  her. 

He  begged  his  bread  from  door  to  door.  Every  halfpenny 
he  could  wring  from  the  pity  or  credulity  of  those  to  whom 


8i6 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


he  addressed  himself,  was  spent  in  the  old  way,  A  yea? 
passed  over  his  head  ;  the  roof  of  a  jail  was  the  only  one  that 
had  sheltered  him  for  many  months.  He  slept  under  arch- 
ways, and  in  brickfields — anywhere,  where  there  was  some 
warmth  or  shelter  from  the  cold  and  rain.  But  in  the  last 
stage  of  poverty,  disease,  and  houseless  want,  he  was  a  drunk- 
ard still. 

At  last,  one  bitter  night,  he  sunk  down  on  a  door-step 
faint  and  ill.  The  permature  decay  of  vice  and  protiigacy 
had  worn  him  to  the  bone.  His  cheeks  were  hollow  and 
livid  ;  his  eyes  were  sunken,  and  their  sight  was  dim.  His 
legs  trembled  beneath  his  weight,  and  a  cold  shiver  ran  through 
every  limb. 

And  now  the  long-forgotten  scenes  of  a  misspent  life 
crowded  thick  and  fast  upon  him.  He  thought  of  the  time 
when  he  had  a  home — a  happy,  cheerful  home — and  of  those 
who  peopled  it,  and  flocked  about  him  then,  until  the  form^ 
of  his  elder  children  seemed  to  rise  from  the  grave,  and 
stand  about  him— so  plam,  so  clear,  and  so  distinct  they 
were  that  he  could  touch  and  feel  them.  Looks  that  he  had 
long  forgotten  were  fixed  upon  him  once  more ;  voices  long 
since  hushed  in  death  sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  music  of 
village  bells.  But  it  was  only  for  an  instant.  The  rain  beat 
heavily  upon  him  ;  and  cold  and  hunger  were  gnawing  at  his 
heart  again. 

He  rose,  and  dragged  his  feeble  limbs  a  few  paces  further. 
The  street  was  silent  and  empty  ]  the  few  passengers  who 
passed  by,  at  that  late  hour,  hurried  quickly  on,  and  his 
tremulous  voice  was  lost  in  the  violence  of  the  storm.  Again 
that  heavy  chill  struck  through  his  frame,  and  his  blood  seemed 
to  stagnate  beneath  it.  He  coiled  himself  up  in  a  projecting 
doorway,  and  tried  to  sleep. 

But  sleep  had  fled  from  his  dull  and  glazed  eyes.  His 
mind  wandered  strangely,  but  he  was  awake,  and  conscious. 
The  well-known  shout  of  drunken  mirth  sounded  in  his  ear, 
the  glass  was  at  his  lips,  the  board  was  covered  with  choice 
rich  food — they  were  before  him  :  he  could  see  them  all,  he 
had  but  to  reach  out  his  hand,  and  take  them — and,  though 
the  illusion  was  reality  itself,  he  knew  that  he  was  sitting 
alone  in  the  deserted  street,  watching  the  rain-drops  as  they 
pattered  on  the  stones  ;  that  death  was  coming  upon  him  by 
inches — and  that  there  were  none  to  care  for  or  help  him. 

Suddenly  he  started  up,  in  the  extremity  of  terror.  He 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  DEATH. 


817 


had  heard  his  own  voice  shouting  in  the  night  air,  he  knew 
not  what,  or  why.  Hark  !  A  groan  ! — another  !  His  senses 
were  leaving  him :  half-formed  and  incoherent  words  burst 
from  his  Hps  ;  and  his  hands  sought  to  tear  and  lacerate  his 
flesh.  He  was  going  mad,  and  he  shrieked  for  help  till  his 
voice  failed  him. 

He  raised  his  head,  and  looked  up  the  long  dismal  street. 
He  recollected  that  outcasts  like  himself,  condemned  to  wan- 
der day  and  night  in  those  dreadful  streets,  had  sometimes 
gone  distracted  with  their  own  loneliness.  He  remembered 
to  have  heard  many  years  before  that  a  homeless  wretch  had 
once  been  found  in  a  solitary  corner,  sharpening  a  rusty  knife 
to  plunge  into  his  own  heart,  preferring  death  to  that  endless, 
weary,  wandering  to  and  fro.  In  an  instant  his  resolve  was 
taken,  his  limbs  received  new  life  ;  he  ran  quickly  from  the 
spot,  and  paused  not  for  breath  until  he  reached  the  river- 
side. 

He  crept  softly  down  the  steep  stone  stairs  that  lead  from 
the  commencement  of  Waterloo  Bridge,  down  to  the  water's 
level.  He  crouched  into  a  corner,  and  held  his  breath,  as 
the  patrol  passed.  Never  did  prisoner's  heart  throb  with 
the  hope  of  liberty  and  life  half  so  eagerly  as  did  that  of  the 
wretched  man  at  the  prospect  of  death.  The  watch  passed 
close  to  him,  but  he  remained  unobserved ;  and  after  waiting 
till  the  sound  of  footsteps  had  died  away  in  the  distance,  he 
cautiously  descended,  and  stood  beneath  the  gloomy  arch 
that  forms  the  landing-place  from  the  river. 

The  tide  was  in,  and  the  water  flowed  at  his  feet.  The 
rain  had  ceased,  the  wind  was  lulled,  and  all  was,  for  the 
moment,  still  and  quiet — so  quiet,  that  the  slightest  sound  on 
the  opposite  bank,  even  the  rippling  of  the  water  against  the 
barges  that  were  moored  there,  was  distinctly  audible  to  his 
ear.  The  stream  stole  languidly  and  sluggishly  on.  Strange 
and  fantastic  forms  rose  to  the  surface,  and  beckoned  him  to 
approach  ;  dark  gleaming  eyes  peered  from  the  water,  and 
seemed  to  mock  his  hesitation,  while  hollow  murmurs  from 
behind,  urged  him  onwards.  He  retreated  a  few  paces,  took 
a  short  run,  desperate  leap,  and  plunged  into  the  river. 

Not  five  seconds  had  passed  when  he  rose  to  the  water's 
surface — but  what  a  change  had  taken  place  in  that  short 
time,  in  all  his  thoughts  and  feelings.  Life — life  in  any  forms, 
poverty,  misery,  starvation — anything  but  death.  He  fought 
and  struggled  with  the  water  that  closed  over  his  head,  and 


8i8 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


screamed  in  agonies  of  terror.  The  curse  of  his  own  son 
rang  in  his  ears.  The  shore — but  one  foot  of  dry  ground- 
he  could  almost  touch  the  step.  One  hand's  breadth  nearer, 
and  he  was  saved — but  the  tide  bore  him  onward,  under  the 
dark  arches  of  the  bridge,  and  he  sank  to  the  bottom. 

Again  he  rose,  and  struggled  for  life.  For  one  instant— 
for  one  brief  instant — the  buildings  on  the  river's  banks,  the 
lights  on  the  bridge  through  which  the  current  had  borne 
him,  the  black  water,  and  the  fast-flying  clouds,  were  distinctly 
visible — once  more  he  sunk,  and  once  again  he  rose.  Bright 
flames  of  fire  shot  up  from  earth  to  heaven,  and  reeled  before 
his  eyes,  while  the  water  thundered  in  his  ears,  and  stunned 
him  with  its  furious  roar. 

A  week  afterwards  the  body  was  washed  ashore,  some 
miles  down  the  river,  a  swollen  and  disfigured  mass.  Un- 
recognized and  unpitied,  it  was  borne  to  the  grave  ;  and  there 
it  has  long  since  mouldered  away  1 


TBS  SMD 


CHARLES  DICKENS' 

COMPLETE  WORKS 


The  following  Index  contains  the  names  of  all  the  writings 
of  Mr.  Charlfi  Dickens,  the  numbers  referring  to  the  volume 
in  which  they  .vill  be  found,  in  the  order  mentioned,  as  fol- 
lows : — 


1.  Pickwick  Papers. 

2.  David  Copperfield. 

3.  Martin  Ckuzzlewit. 

4.  Nicholas  Nickleby. 

5.  Bleak  House. 

6.  Little  Dorrit. 

7.  DoMBEY  &  Son. 

8.  Our  Mutual  Friend. 

9.  Oliver  Twist,  Pictures  from 
Italy,  and  American  Notes. 

10.  Old   Curiosity   Shop  and 
Hard  Times. 


11.  Tale  of  Two  Cities  and 
Sketches  by  Boz. 

12.  Barnaby  Rudge  and  Myst- 
ery OF  Edwin  Drood. 

13.  Great  Expectations,  Un- 
commercial Traveller,  and 
Miscellaneous. 

14.  Christmas  Stories  and  Re* 
printed  Pieces. 

15.  Child's  History  of  England 
AND  Miscellaneous. 


INDEX. 


Aboard  Ship   13  1 

Addit.  Christmas  Stories  14 


Barlow,  Mr   13 

Barnaby  Rudge   12 

Battle  of  Life,  The   14 

Beadle,  The   11 

Begging-Letter  Writer...  14 

Bill-Sticking   14 

Birth-Day  Celebrations..  13 


American  Notes   9 

Anecdotes,  Three  Detec- 
tive  14 

B. 

Births   14 

Black  Veil.  The   11 

Bleak  House   5 

Bloomsbury  Christmas, 

The   II 

Boarding  House,  The..  11 

Boiled  Beef  of  N.  Engl'd  13 


Arcadian  London   13 

Astleys   xi 


Bound  for  the  Great  Salt 

Lake  13 

Boy  at  Mugby,  The..  ..  14 

Boz,  Sketches  by   11 

Broker's  Man,  The   zi 

Brokers*  &  Marine-Store 

Shops   ti 

(819) 


820 


INDEX. 


Calais  Night  Mail,  The..  13 

Chambers   13 

Characters   11 

Chatham  Dockyard   13 

Child's  Dream  of  a  Star.  14 
Child's  History  of  Eng- 
land  15 

Child's  Story,  The   14 

Chimes,  The   14 

Christmas  Carol,  A.  ...  14 
Christmas  Dinner,  A . . . .  11 


Christmas  Stories   14 

Christmas  Tree,  A   14 

Christmas  Stories,  Addi- 
tional   14 

Chuzzlewit,  Martin   3 

City  of  London  Churches  13 
City  of  the  Absent,  The  13 
Clock,   Master  Humph- 
rey's   15 

Contradictory  Couple. ...  13 
Cool  Couple,  The   13 


Copperfield,  David   2 

Couple  who  coddle  them- 
selves, The   13 

Couple  who  dote  upon 
their  Children,  The...  13 

Couples,  young.  Sketches 

9f   n 

Cricket  in  the  Hearth, 

The   ..  14 

Crimmal  Courts   11 

Curate,  The   11 


Dancing  Academy,  The.. 
Detective  Anecdotes.... 
Detective  Police,  The.. 


D. 

II  I  Doctor's  Commons  

14    Dombey  &  Son  

14  1  Down  with  the  Tide  ... 


II  j  Drood,  Edwin,  Mystery  of  la 
7  j  Drunkard's  Death,  The.  li 
14  I  Dullborough  Town   13 


Early  Coaches  

Edwin  Drood,  Mystery  of 
Egotistical  Couple,  The 


E. 

11  I  Election  for  Beadle  

12  England,  History  of, 

13  I  Child's  


I  r    English  Watering  Place, 

Our   14 

15    Expectations,  Great....  13 


Fairy  Tale,  Prince  Bull..  14 

First  of  May,  The   11 

First  Omnibus  Cad.   ii 


F. 

Flight,  A   14 

Fly-Leaf  in  a  Life,  A. . ..  13 

Formal  Couple,  The ... .  13 


Four  Sisters,  The   n 

French  Flemish  Country.  13 
French  Watering  Place.  14 


G. 

Ghost  of  Art,  The   14  I  Gin  Shops   it  .Great  Tasmania's  Cargo  13 

Ghost  Stories,  Two          14    Going  into  Society   15  Great  Winglebury  Duel,  n 

Ghost's  Bargains,  The . .  14  |  Great  Expectations   13  Greenwich  Fair   11 


H. 


Hackney  Coach  Stand..  11 

Half-Pay  Captain,  The . .  11 

Hard  Times   10 

Haunted  House,  The...  15 

Haunted  Man,  The   14 


His  General  Line  of  Busi- 
ness  13 

History  of  England, 
Child's   15 


Holiday  Romance   15 

Holly  Tree  Inn   10 

Horatio  Sparkins   11 

Hospital  Patient,  The..  11 
Humphrey,  Mast'r,  clock  15 


Inspector  Field,  On  Duty      I  Italian  Prisoner,  The....  13  I  Italy,  Pictures  from   9 

with   14  I  ' 


L. 

Ladies'  Societies,  The..  11    Lirriper's,  Mrs.,  Legacy  14    London  Recreations....  11 

Last  Cab  Driver,  The..  11    Little  Dinner  in  an  Hour,         Long  Voyage,  The   14 

Lirriper's,    Mrs.,  Lodg-  A   13    Loving  Couple,  The   13 

ings   14    Little  Dorrit   6    Lying  Awake   14 


Making  a  Night  of  It.. ..  11 

Marigold,  Dr   14 

Master  Humphrey's 

Clock    15 

Medicine  Men  of  Civil- 
ization  13 


M. 

Meditations  in  Monmouth 
Street   11 

Meek,  Mrs.,  of  a  Son...  14 

Minns,  Mr.,  and  his 
cousin   n 

Misplaced  Attachment  of 


Mr.  John  Dounce   n 

Mistaken  Milliner,  The. .  11 

Miss  Evan* and  the  Eagle  11 
Monument  of  French 

Folly,  A   14 

Mudfog  Association,  The  15 


INDEX. 


821 


N. 

Nice  Little  Couple,  The  13  I  Nobody's  Story   14 

Nickleby,  Nicholas  ....    4    No  Thoroughfare   15 

Night  Walks                     13    Notes,  American   9 

Noble  Savage,  The          14  |  Nurse's  Stories   13 


New  Uncommercial  Sam- 
ples ■   13 

New  Year,  The   11 

Newgate,  A  Visit  to   ix 

Old  Couple,  The   13 

Old  Curiosity  Shop   10 

Old  Lady,  The   ii 

Old   Stage  Coaching 

House   13 

Oliver  Twist   9 

Omnibuses   \\ 

On  an  Amateur  Beat   13 

Parish  Engine,  The   11 

Parish,  Our   11 

Parliamentary  Sketch,  A  ir 

Parlor  Orator,  The   i  r 

Passage  in  the  Life  of  Mr. 

Watkins  Tottle   11 

Pawnbroker's  Shop,  The  11 

Pieces,  Reprinted   14 

Perils  of  certam  English 

Refreshments  for  Travel- 
lers  13 

Samples,  New  Uncom- 
mercial  13 

Scenes   11 

Schoolboy's  Story,  The  14 

Schoolmaster,  The   ri 

Scotland  Yard   rr 

Sentiment   11 

Seven  Poor  Travellers, 
The   14 

Tale  of  Two  Cities   it 

Tales   r  r 

Thoughts  about  People.,  xi 
Three  Detective  Anec- 
dotes  14 


O. 


On  duty  with  Inspector 
Field.   14 

Our  Bore   14 

Our  English  Watering 
Place   14 

Our  French  Watering 
Place     14 

P. 

Travellers   15 

Pickwick  Papers   i 

Pictures  from  Italy   9 

Piated  Article,  A   14 

Plausible  Couple,  The..  13 
Plea  for  Total  Abstin- 
ence  13 

Poor  Man's  Tale  of  a 
Patent   14 

R. 

Reprinted  Pieces  

River,  The  

S. 

Seven  Dials   

Shabby  Genteel  People.. 

Shipwreck,  The   13 

Shops  and  their  Tenants  11 

Shy  Neighborhoods   13 

Signal  Man,  The   14 

Silverman's,  George,  Ex- 
planation  15 

Sketches  by  Boz ........  11 

T. 

Titbull's  Alms-houses..  13 

Tom  Tiddler's  Ground  .  15 

Tramps   13 

Traveller,  Uncommercial  13 

Travelling  Abroad    13 

Trial  for  Murder,  The..  14 


U.  V. 


Our  Honorable  Friend..  14 

Our  Mutual  Friend   8 

Our  Next  Door  Neighbor  11 

Our  Parish   11 

Our  School   X4 

Our  Vestry   14 

Out  of  the  Season   14 

Out  of  Town   14 


Poor  Mercantile  Jack...  13 
Poor    Relation'?  Story, 

The..   14 

Porter,  Mrs.  Joseph   11 

Prince    Bull,  a  Fairy 

Tale   14 

Private  Theatres    11 

Prisoners' Van,  The. .  . .  11 
Public  Dinners   11 


Sketches  of  Young 

Couples   13 

Small  Star  in  the  East,  A  13 

Somebody's  Luggage..  . .  14 
Some    Recollections  of 

Mortality   13 

Steam  Excursion,  The. .  11 

Streets — Morning   11 

Streets — Evening   11 

Twist,  Oliver   9 

Two  Ghost  Stories   14 

Two  Views  of  a  Cheap 

Theatre   13 

Tugg's  at  Ramsgate,  The  ij 


14    Romance,  Holiday..   15 

II  j  Rudge,  Barnaby   12 


Uncommercial  Samples,      |  Uncommercial  Traveller  13  I  Vauxhall     Gardens  by 
New   13  I  Visit  to  Newgate   11  |     Day   l  ' 

W.  Y. 

Walk  in  a  Workhouse,  A  14  I  Wreck  of    the    Golden      I  Young  Couple,  The   13 

Wapping  Wortc+iouse. . ..  13       Mary   15    Young  Couples,  Sketches 

Workhouse,  A  Walk  in  a  14  I  J     of....   13 


